LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 


'I  was  laughing  at  you" 


LEAVE  IT  TO 
DORIS 


BY 

ETHEL  HUESTON 


AUTHOR  OF 


PRUDENCE  OF  THE  PARSONAGE, 
PRUDENCE  SAYS  SO,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

W.  B.  KING 


NEW    YORK 

GROSSET    &DUNLAP 

PUBLIS  HERS 

Made  in  the  United  State*  of  America 


COPYRIGHT  1919 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


To 
MY  BROTHERS  AND  SISTERS 

Who  with  me  learned  the  secret  of  riotously 
happy  living  even  in  parsonage  confines 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAG! 

I  THE  GENERAL          .         .        .        ,        .  1 

II  THE  PROBLEM          .         ....  27 

III  THE  IMP          ......  50 

IV  THE  BLESSING 69 

V  THE  WILL        .         .        ,       '.».'•        .  100 

VI  THE  SERPENT           .....  117 

VII  DISCIPLINE       .         .        .        .        .         .  133 

VIII  THE  BISHOP 14$ 

IX  THE  RUNAWAYS 165- 

X  MR.  WIZARD    .         .        .        .        .        .191 

XI  THE  PHILOSOPHER   .....  208 

XII  FINDING  THE  PATH 227 

XIII  ROSALIE'S  WAY 24S 

XIV  THE  DOCTOR 261 

XV  RISING  TO  THE  MANSE  274 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

CHAPTER  I 

THE   GENERAL 

THE  Reverend  Mr.  Artman  paced  soberly 
up  and  down  the  small  living-room  of  his 
manse,  as  every  one  called  the  parsonage.  His 
eyes  were  clouded.  The  lines  at  the  corners  of 
his  kindly  lips  were  sternly  set.  Now  and  then  he 
glanced  toward  the  bay-window  where  Doris  sat, 
untroubled,  serene,  her  dainty  fingers  cleverly 
transforming  huge  rents  in  small  garments  into 
triumphs  of  patchery.  The  wind,  coming  softly 
through  the  peach  trees  outside  the  windows, 
loosened  tiny  tendrils  of  hair  that  curled  tenderly 
about  her  rosy  ears. 

Mr.  Artman  sighed  drearily. 

Doris,  unperturbed,  continued  her  darning,  but 
bright  lights  were  dancing  in  her  blue  eyes. 

"Hay,  ho,"  drawled  Mr.  Artman  suggestively. 
1 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Isn't  it  lovely  and  cool  to-day,  father?" 
queried  his  daughter  sweetly. 

Without  answering,  he  walked  abruptly  to  the 
kitchen  door,  peering  anxiously  into  the  room 
beyond,  and  closed  it  cautiously.  The  General 
puckered  her  lips  earnestly  over  a  too-small  scrap 
of  cloth  vainly  coping  with  a  too-large  rent.  Her 
father  went  to  the  door  opening  upon  the  porch, 
and  closed  it  also.  Then  he  walked  slowly  up 
toward  his  daughter,  opening  his  lips  as  though 
on  the  verge  of  confidence.  But  he  turned  once 
more,  and  resumed  his  restless  pacing. 

Then  Doris  dropped  the  darning  into  the  basket 
beside  her  and  faced  her  father. 

"Father,"  and  the  voice,  though  soft,  was  im- 
perious. 

He  started  guiltily,  and  flushed. 

"Come  and  sit  down,"  she  commanded.  "If 
you  do  not  speak  up  instantly  and  tell  me  what 
is  on  your  mind  I  shall  jump  up  and  down  and 
scream.  You  make  me  so  nervous  when  you 
squirm  around  that  way.  What  ever  in  the  world 
is  the  matter  with  you?" 

2 


THE  GENERAL 

Her  father  quickly  dumped  the  mending  basket 
and  its  contents  upon  the  floor,  with  masculine 
and  ministerial  lack  of  regard  for  things  do- 
mestic, and  appropriated  the  chair,  drawing  it 
close  to  his  daughter's  side. 

"Hurry,  hurry,"  came  the  gentle  authoritative 
voice.  "I  have  oceans  to  do.  What  is  it?" 

"Well,  it  is —  Why,  nothing  special,  child, 
what  made  you  think — " 

"You  haven't  gone  and  proposed  to  Miss  Carl- 
ton,  have  you?"  she  gasped. 

"No,  thank  Heaven,"  came  the  fervent  answer. 

"Careful,  father.  You  mean  it  devoutly,  I  am 
sure,  but  Providence  might  mistake  it  for  irrev- 
erence. Providence  does  not  know  Miss  Carlton 
as  we  do,  you  know.  Don't  be  afraid  to  tell  me 
then — nothing  else  could  be  so  terribly  bad." 

"Well,  dearest,  I  was  just  wondering  if — don't 
you  think,  perhaps — if  I  help  a  lot,  and  see  that 
the  girls  do  their  share — don't  you  think  we  could 
get  along  without  Miss  Carlton  this  year?" 

The  General  considered,  her  curly  head  cocked 
on  one  side,  her  brows  knitted. 

3 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"I  wanted  to  take  charge  right  after  mother 
died — but  you  were  not  willing." 

"You  were  too  young  then,  and  still  in  school." 

"Aren't  you  satisfied  with  Miss  Carlton's 
;work?"  she  asked  slyly. 

"Her  work  has  nothing  to —  Yes,  of  course  I 
am,  dear.  And  she  is  a  good  woman,  very  good. 
And  has  been  a  great  help  to  us  the  last  three 
years,  at  a  very  reasonable  salary." 

"I  have  done  most  of  the  work  myself,  but 
you  do  not  believe  it,"  said  Doris. 

"Yes,  of  course  you  have,  dear.  And  the  Prob- 
lem is  quite  old  now,  and  between  the  two  of  you 
• — between  the  three  of  us,  I  mean — ** 

"You  mean,  between  me,"  said  Doris  frankly. 
"Your  intentions  are  the  best  in  the  world, 
father  darling,  but  if  you  ever  broke  into  the 
kitchen  you  would  very  likely  wipe  dishes  on 
sermon  manuscripts — very  good  manuscripts, 
perhaps,  but  you  can't  practise  on  the  dishes  the 
Endeavor  paid  forty  dollars  for.  And  the  Prob- 
lem! But  as  you  say,  between  me,  I  think  per- 
haps I  could  get  along  without  Miss  Carlton 

4 


THE  GENERAL 

nicely.  She  is  rather  hard  to  evade,  isn't  she, 
dearest?" 

Her  father  flushed  boyishly.  "I  am  sure, 
Doris—" 

"Yes,  indeed,  dear,  so  am  I,"  she  interrupted 
sweetly.  "And  I  am  truly  proud  that  you  have 
withstood  so  long.  Stronger  men  than  you  have 
fallen  in  less  persistent  sieges.  You  have  done 
well.  But  I  hope  you  will  remember  that  I  have 
been  praying  right  along  that  you  might  be  given 
strength  equal  to  the  conquest,  so  don't  take  too 
much  credit  yourself." 

"Well,  I  suppose  the  poor  thing  really  can't 
help—" 

"Oh,  no,  belovedest,  of  course  she  can't  help 
it.  Only  I  haven't  noticed  any  married  women 
finding  you  so  irresistibly  handsome,  and  fasci- 
nating, and  all  that,  have  you?  At  least,  they 
don't  come  telling  you  about  it  to  your  face." 

Then  at  his  guilty  face  she  laughed,  and  snug- 
gled on  his  knee,  kissing  his  chin  adoringly. 

"You  are  a  dear  sweet  darling  love,"  she  said, 
"and  I  will  do  my  best  to  make  you  comfortable, 

5 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

and  keep  the  manse  on  four  legs,  or  four  wheels, 
or  four — what  is  it  a  manse  runs  on,  anyhow?" 

"Four  girls,"  he  said,  laughing.  "Mine  does, 
anyhow." 

"Er,  father,  when  will  you  break  it  to  Miss 
Carlton?" 

He  sighed  heavily.  "Why,  General,  I  supposed 
— I  thought — maybe  it  would  be  better  for  you 
just  to  tell  her  you  are  old  enough  to  take  charge 
yourself  now,  and — I  think  she  would  take  it 
better  from  you." 

"Oh,  father,  what  a  coward  you  are,"  she  said 
sadly.  "You  call  me  General,  and  I  know  I  rule 
you  with  a  rod  of  iron,  but  I  haven't  much  back- 
bone in  my  army,  I  am  sure  of  Jiat.  Well,  then, 
I  will  break  it  to  Miss  Carlton."  She  looked 
thoughtfully  out  at  the  branches  swaying  lazily 
in  the  warm  wind.  "I  wonder  how  the  Problem 
will  take  it?  She  is  so  likely  to  object,  you  know." 

He  cleared  his  throat  anxiously.  "Oh,  you  can 
fix  it  up  with  her  some  way." 

"I  am  to  do  that,  too,  am  I  ?"  laughed  the  Gen- 
eral. "You'd  better  look  up  that  epistle  about  the 

6 


THE  GENERAL 

armof,  father.  You  need  a  breastplate,  and  a 
steel  helmet,  and  a  sword  of  faith — and  quite  a 
lot  of  things.  Run  along  then,  dearest,  and  don't 
bother  me.  Miss  Carlton  will  be  here  in  a  few 
minutes,  and  I  must  prepare  my  campaign." 

Mr.  Artman  reached  hastily  for  his  hat.  "I — 
I  think  I  shall  go  down-town  a  while — I  need 
some  fresh  air —  That  mean  little  headache 
again,  you  know — and  I  must  see  Mr.  James. 
Pretty  sick  man.  I  may  not  be  home  for  dinner 
to-night.  Don't  sit  up  for  me — and  don't  let  any- 
body else." 

"A  good  thing  we  have  a  sick  member,  isn't 
it?"  she  teased.  "You  aren't  going  to  get  home 
until  the  storm  is  over,  are  you?"  She  shook  her 
curls  at  him  reprovingly.  "Such  a  good,  sweet, 
faithful  preacher  you  are — and  such  an  awful 
coward  when  it  comes  to  us  women." 

"I  tell  you,  Doris,"  he  said  sturdily,  "I  think 
it  would  be  easier  to  face  a  den  of  lions,  or  a 
howling  mob  of  I.  W.  W.'s,  or  any  number  of  or- 
dinary sinners,  than  one  Christian  woman  when 
she  wants — she  makes  up  her  mind — I  mean — "" 

7 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"You  mean,  when  she  is  getting  you  ready  to 
propose  to  her,  I  suppose.  I  do  not  blame  you, 
father. — Fly,  here  she  comes.  Scoot  out  the  back 
door,  and  sneak  through  the  barn.  It  will  be  over 
by  morning.  Run,  you  coward,  run,"  she  cried, 
shooing  him  gaily  out  the  back  door. 

Then  she  went  back  to  the  bay-window,  and 
sat  down  with  the  mending,  her  pretty  brows 
puckered. 

"Miss  Carlton  is  wax  in  my  hands,"  she 
thought.  "But  whatever  in  the  world  will  Rosalie 
say?  If  one  only  knew  what  to  expect,  it  would 
not  be  so  serious.  But  nobody  ever  can  predict 
how  our  lovely  little  old  Problem  of  a  Rosalie 
will  take  anything." 

"Still  mending,  dear  Doris?"  came  a  voice  of 
studied  sweetness  from  the  doorway. 

"Yes,  still  at  it.  But  I  did  not  work  all  the 
time.  I  have  been  playing  with  father.  He  is 
such  a  tease." 

Miss  Carlton  looked  around  the  wide  room 
anxiously,  hopefully. 

"He  is  gone  now — to  see  Mr.  James,  I  think — 
8 


THE  GENERAL 

somebody  sick,  anyhow.  I  have  been  having  a 
serious  time  with  him,  Miss  Carlton."  She 
dropped  the  mending  and  looked  at  the  older, 
much  older  woman,  with  frank,  straightforward, 
innocent  eyes.  "They  call  me  General,  but  they 
never  want  to  do  as  I  say." 

"And  what  is  our  little  General  after  now?" 
asked  Miss  Carlton,  smiling.  "Shall  I  help  you 
get  it?  I  do  not  think  he  will  refuse  it,  if  I  ask.'* 

"Oh,  you  will  be  like  every  one  else;  you 
will  say  it  is  not  advisable.  But  they  do  not  call 
me  General  for  nothing."  Doris  straightened  her 
slender  shoulders,  and  looked  very  domineering. 
"I  have  made  up  my  mind.  I  shall  have  my  way." 

"Wouldn't  your  father  give  in?"  Miss  Carl- 
ton's  voice  was  mildly  surprised.  Father  Artman 
withstood  Doris  very,  very  seldom  indeed. 

"Oh,  yes,  he  gave  in,  of  course.  That  is,  he 
says  I  shall  try  it.  But  I  know  he  thinks  I  shall 
tire  of  it  soon.  He  does  not  know  me,  does  he? 
I  never  give  up,  do  I  ?" 

"Not  very  often,  no,"  admitted  Miss  Carlton 
rather  grimly. 

9 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Come  and  sit  down,  dear,  and  let  me  tell  you," 
said  Doris  eagerly.  "I  think  it  will  make  you 
happy  too.  I  am  twenty  years  old,  and  very,  oh, 
tremendously  mature,  don't  you  think  so?" 

"Well,  perhaps,"  was  the  doubtful  admission. 

"Yes,  of  course.  And  you  know  how  hard  up 
we  preachers  always  are,  and  we  have  to  econo- 
mize just  fearfully,  especially  now  the  Problem 
is  a  junior  in  college — and  somehow  it  takes 
lots  more  clothes  for  her  in  college  than  it  ever 
did  for  me.  And  you  have  been  so  wonderful  to 
us  all  these  three  years,  and  such  a  help — but 
now  I  feel  that  I  am  old  enough — and  that  it  is 
my  duty  and  my  priceless  opportunity  to  take 
charge  of  the  family,  and  then  you  can  go  home 
again  and  be  free  to  live  your  own  life,  and 
though  you  have  never  complained  I  know  how 
happy  it  will  make  you." 

"No,  indeed,"  came  the  quick  protest.  "I  like 
it  here.  The  salary  is  nothing  extra,  but  you  have 
done  quite  a  lot  of  the  work,  you  know.  Oh,  no 
indeed,  little  girl,  you  must  not  think  of  it.  Why, 
it  is  just  time  for  you  to  have  your  play  days  now 

10 


THE  GENERAL 

your  school  is  over,  and  we  older  ones  can  bear 
the  burdens  of  life.    You  must  not  think  of  it." 

"But  I  have  thought  of  it,"  said  Doris  sweetly. 
"And  father  promised  I  should  try.  And  I  am 
the  General." 

"You  have  been  planning  all  these  years  to  go 
to  Chicago  and  study,  and  become  a  missionary. 
You  can  not  give  up  your  life  ambitions  now." 

"I  have  changed  them,"  said  Doris.  "Father 
wants  me,  and  that  is  enough." 

"He  won't  let  you  change  them  for  him." 

"Father  is  the  most  unselfish  thing  in  the 
world,  I  know,"  smiled  Doris.  "But  father  has 
forgotten  that  I  ever  even  thought  of  such  a 
thing — and  since  he  wants  me  here,  it  is  settled. 
I  shall  never  think  of  it  again." 

"You  won't  be  happy — " 

"Oh,  Miss  Carlton,"  said  Doris,  standing  up 
suddenly,  tall  and  straight.  "You  think  I  won't 
be  happy  staying  where  father  wants  me,  and 
filling  father's  need  ?" 

"But  it  would  be  wicked  to  deny  the  call  to 
service  as — " 

11 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"I  wanted  to  be  a  missionary  because  it  ap- 
pealed to  me.  But  I  hear  no  call  but  father's 
voice.  If  a  message  came  from  Heaven,  the  way 
would  be  changed  for  me.  Right  now,  the  path 
of  service  goes  right  smack  into  the  manse,  and  I 
do  not  see  it  going  out  on  the  other  side."  Doris 
smiled  winsomely. 

"Wait  till  I  talk  things  over  with  your  father 
— he  will  see  how  absurd  it  is." 

"He  promised.  Father  may  have  his  faults, 
though  I  do  not  know  what  they  are,  but  he  al- 
ways keeps  a  promise." 

"He  should  not  have  promised  until  he  dis- 
cussed things  with  me." 

"But,  Miss  Carlton,  we  are  his  family,  you 
know.  And  I  am  the  oldest  daughter,  and  very 
grown  up.  You  see  how  it  is,  don't  you?  Of 
course,  I  do  not  wish  to  hurry  you  off,  but  I 
know  how  anxious  you  must  be  to  get  home, 
and  you  need  not  feel  you  have  to  linger  on  my 
account.  I  haven't  planned  anything  to  do  to- 
morrow, and  can  help  you  with  your  packing  the 
jwhole  day  long." 

12 


THE  GENERAL 

"I  can  do  my  own  packing,  thank  you.  And  I 
shall  do  it  immediately.  Your  father  really  con- 
sented to  this  arrangement,  did  he  ?" 

"Oh,  certainly  he  did.  He  sees  himself  that  it 
is  the  proper  thing*  to  do,  and  will  save  quite  a 
little  money,  and  goodness  knows  we  need  if. 
And  then  the  responsibility  will  develop  my  char- 
acter, or — or  something." 

Miss  Carlton  flounched  out  of  the  room  and 
up  the  stairs.  Doris  listened  intently  at  the  door. 

"She  is  not  exactly  happy  about  it,  but  I  am. 
And  father  is.  If  I  only  knew  what  the  Problem 
would  think  of  it.  I  wish  Miss  Carlton  would  go 
right  straight  away — she  is  angry  enough  to  do 
it.  Then  I  could  tackle  the  Problem  alone,  and 
it  would  be  too  late  to  undo." 

She  shut  her  eyes  very  tightly  and  murmured, 
softly,  unintelligibly  beneath  her  breath.  "Now; 
to  make  doubly  sure,  I  shall  go  and  concentrate. 
Every  one  says  you  get  things  if  you  concentrate 
hard  enough." 

She  listened  once  more  at  the  door  that  led  into 
the  hall.  Miss  Carlton  was  undoubtedly  throwing 

13 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

her  possessions  violently  and  untenderly  into  her 
bags  and  trunk. 

"Concentration  won't  hurt,  for  when  she  re- 
tnembers  how  handsome  father  is  she  may  change 
her  mind,"  said  the  General  soberly. 

So  she  slipped  back  to  the  bay-window,  and 
bent  all  her  energies,  and  all  the  force  of  her 
strong  young  will  to  the  task  of  concentration. 

A  little  later  she  heard  Miss  Carlton  at  the  up- 
stairs branch  of  the  telephone,  and  though  she 
would  not  dream  of  listening  to  a  telephonic  con- 
versation, she  did  saunter  carelessly  to  the  hall 
<k>or  and  so  overheard  Miss  Carlton  giving  a  hur- 
ried order  for  an  expressman. 

"Providence  and  concentration  togethef  are 
really  irresistible,"  she  smiled  to  herself.  "I  sup- 
pose, after  all,  I  could  have  gotten  along  with- 
out the  concentration,  but  in  a  crisis  like  this  I 
thought  it  would  not  hurt  to  try  everything." 

She  went  demurely  back  to  her  mending,  and, 
after  a  while  the  expressman   came   and  took 
away  the  trunk  and  bags,  and  finally  Miss  Carl- 
ton  came  to  her. 

14 


THE  GENERAL 

"I  am  going  home  right  now,  Doris,"  she  said, 
"but  I  do  not  regard  this  as  final.  We  shall  say  I 
am  going  for  a  visit.  And  when  you  want  me  to 
come  back,  just  telephone.  After  all,  I  think  it 
is  a  good  move.  Your  father  will  soon  find  out 
what  a  difference  I  made  in  the  home.  He  will 
be  the  first  to  want  me  back."  She  smiled  without 
resentment.  "So  I  quite  agree  with  you,  little 
General.  This  just  suits  my  purpose,  and  I  shall 
stay  at  home  until — some  one  comes  after  me." 

"I  know  we  are  going  to  miss  you,"  cried 
Doris  sincerely.  "You  have  always  been  kind  to 
us,  and  we  have  never  been  able  to  pay  you  half 
what  you  deserved.  And  if  we  find  we  can't  get 
along,  and  you  are  willing,  we  shall  have  you 
back  in  a  hurry.  But  I  am  going  to  try,  and  I 
never  yield  until  I  have  to." 

So  Doris  paid  Miss  Carlton  the  modest  sum 
due  her  and  the  two  parted  with  cordiality,  Miss 
Carlton  leaving  friendly  messages  for  the  other 
members  of  the  household. 

As  soon  as  she  was  quite  out  of  sight,  Doris 
flew  to  the  kitchen. 

15 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Even  the  Problem  is  amenable  to  a  good 
meal,"  she  said.  "She  shall  have  delicious  cream 
gravy — the  little  glutton — and  pear  preserves, 
and  apple  dumplings." 

So  eagerly  and  so  passionately  did  she  devote 
her  energies  to  the  task  that  she  did  not  hear  the 
door  open  behind  her,  and  never  knew  her  sister 
was  at  her  elbow  until  a  soft  ripply  voice  said 
suddenly : 

"Well,  Mr.  General,  is  mess  nearly  ready  for 
us?" 

"Oh,  Rosalie,"  cried  Doris,  flinging  floury 
arms  about  the  girl  at  her  side.  "Oh,  you  dear 
little  darling,  I  am  so  glad  you  came." 

"Why  so  mushy?"  demanded  Rosalie  in  a  voice 
so  soft  and  gurgling  and  throaty  it  made  one 
think  of  tinkling  waterfalls,  and  silver  moon- 
shine, and  irresistible  dimples.  "Don't  I  always 
come  ?  Why  all  the  exclamations  at  me  ?" 

"Because  I  love  you,  and  because  I  am  happy, 
and  because — you  scoot  to  the  phone,  will  you, 
and  call  up  Mr.  James'  residence  and  tell  father 

16 


THE  GENERAL 

I  want  him  to  come  home  to  dinner  to-night  with- 
out fail,  for  very  extra  special  reasons — apple 
dumplings,  but  you  needn't  tell  him  over  the 
phone — and  hurry,  dear,  before  he  leaves  there.". 

The  General  looked  soberly  after  her  sister  as 
she  danced  lightly  out  of  the  kitchen.  Rosalie  was 
quite  too  terribly  lovely  for  anything — that  was 
really  what  made  her  such  a  Problem.  And  her 
eyes  were  full  of  dazzling  witching  lights,  and 
dangerous  dark  shadows,  her  lips  were  rosy, 
pouty,  tempting  lips,  her  skin  was  a  pearly  pink 
and  white,  and  her  voice  melting  melody. 

"She  is  Problem  enough  now — what  will  she 
be  a  little  later  on?"  thought  the  General  anx- 
iously as  she  took  a  loving  look  at  her  dumplings. 

"Where  is  Miss  Carlton?"  asked  Rosalie,  re- 
turning promptly.  "Father  says  he  will  come 
immediately.  Aren't  the  girls  home  yet?  I  sup- 
pose I  must  set  the  table  then.  I  think  you  should 
speak  to  them,  Doris — they  are  never  here  when 
you  want  them.  Where  is  Miss  Carlton?  Won't 
she  be  here  for  dinner?" 
17 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"No,  not—" 

"Goody! — Doris,  do  you  think  she — has  her 
eye  on  father?" 

"Why,  Rosalie,  whatever  put  such  a  notion  as 
that  into  your  head?"  Doris  was  all  wide-eyed 
astonishment. 

"Well,  perhaps  it  is  not  nice  of  me  to  mention 
it,  but  she  is  always  tagging  him  about,  and  tell- 
ing him  how  clever  he  is,  and  she  is  always  say- 
ing how  much  we  need  a  mother —  Oh,  she's  all 
right,  of  course — not  my  type  at  all,  but — I  am 
glad  she  won't  be  home  for  dinner.  Doris,  will 
you  ask  father  if  we  may  go  to  the  Country  Club 
da — party  next  week?  They  may  dance,  but  we 
won't  have  to.  I  could  do  it  though  as  easy  as 
not.  This  is  the  first  time  they  have  asked  us  to 
a  strictly  town  affair,  and  we  just  have  to  go. 
This  is  the  way  they  dance  that  new  step  the 
girls  are  raving  about.  See?  Three  steps  this 
way,  one,  two,  three;  one,  two,  three;  hippity 
hip—" 

"Rosalie!"  gasped  Doris.  "Wherever  did  you 
learn  that?" 

18 


THE  GENERAL 

"Amy  taught  me.  She  takes  regular  dancing 
lessons  from  a  man,  a  dollar  a  lesson,  and  then 
she  teaches  me.  It  is  just  like  gym,  you  know, 
only  at  a  dance  there  are  men.  Miss  Graham  says 
I  am  very  graceful,  and  with  my  slender  ankles 
'and  high  insteps  I  would  look  lovely  in  dancing 
slippers.  Now,  Doris,  don't  be  horrified,  I  am 
not  going  to  dance.  But  you  tell  father  we  are 
invited,  and —  You  sit  out  the  dances,  you  know, 
if  you  are  a  preacher  and  can't  dance — and  you 
get  behind  a  big  fern,  and  the  men  tell  you  how 
lovely  you  are,  and  how  much  nicer  it  is  to  sit  out 
with  you  than  to  go  stumbling  around  over  other 
girls'  toes,  getting  their  collars  all  sweated  out, 
and  how  sweet  and  cool  you  look,  and — " 

"Rosalie!" 

"They  do  not  mean  it,  Doris,  they  just  talk 
that  way.  And  I  know  they  do  not  mean  it,  so  it 
does  me  no  harm.  And  it  is  lots  of  fun.  They 
all  do  it." 

"They  do  not  talk  that  way  to  me,"  said  Doris 
virtuously. 

"No,  you  do  not  give  them  a  chance.  If  a  man 
19 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

says  you  have  beautiful  blue  eyes,  you  look  him 
straight  in  the  face  and  say,  'Yes,  thank  goodness, 
I  need  something  to  make  up  for  my  pug  nose.' 
That  is  no  way  to  talk  to  a  man.  You  ought  to 
drop  your  lashes  like  this,  and  then  look  up  sud- 
denly, and  away  again  quickly,  and  laugh  a  little 
and  say,  'Oh,  you  talk  that  way  to  every  one — 
you  do  not  mean  it,'  and  then  they  say  you  are  the 
only  girl  in  the  world — " 

"Rosalie  Artman,  I  think  you  are  perfectly  ter- 
rible. Where  in  the  world  do  you  learn  all  that 
silly  stuff?" 

"I  do  not  learn  it,"  laughed  Rosalie.  "I  do 
not  have  to.  It  was  born  in  me.  I  sort  of  breathe 
it.  Tra,  la,  la,  lalala.  I  can  do  a  toe  dance,  Doris. 
I  will  teach  you.  Does  father  go  to  the  Sessions 
to-night  ?  Then  we  will  have  a  lesson  while  he  is 
gone.  Oh,  there  come — " 

"Rosalie,  I  want  to  ask  you —  Don't  you  think 
we  ought  to  get  along  without  Miss  Carlton  now  ? 
She  is  so  sort  of  prim,  and  bossy — and  it  costs 
eighteen  dollars  a  month — and  if  we  do  you  can 
have  nicer  clothes,  you  know." 
20 


THE  GENERAL 

"Wouldn't  be  proper,"  said  Rosalie  lightly. 
"Beautiful  girls  must  be  properly  guarded.  And 
besides,  I  would  have  to  do  more  work,  and  I 
don't  like  to  work." 

"Father  is  proper  enough  for  anybody,"  said 
Doris  with  spirit.  "And  I  do  all  of  the  work 
anyhow." 

"Could  I  have  a  regular  evening  dress,  V  in 
the  back  and  no  sleeves  ?"  demanded  Rosalie  with 
glittering  eyes.  "Isn't  it  funny,  the  less  there  is 
to  a  dress,  the  more  there  is  to  the  cost  ?  All  the 
girls  have  evening  dresses,  and  I  have  the  nicest 
shoulders  in  the  whole  gym.  But  Miss  Carlton 
would  never  go.  You  couldn't  fire  her  off." 

"Who  is  the  General?"  demanded  Doris  loftily. 
"If  I  say  go,  she  goes  in  a  hurry." 

Rosalie  looked  up  quickly. 

"You  bad  General,  she  is  gone  already,  isn't 
she?" 

"Yes ;  do  you  mind  ?" 

"Are  you  sure  father  won't  go  trotting  after 
her,  and  marry  her  on  the  sly  ?" 

Doris  lifted  horrified  eyes  skyward. 
21 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Well,  I  am  sure  I  do  not  care.  I  think  I  am 
rather  glad.  Whenever  I  got  my  dates  mixed,  and 
had  two  or  three  callers  at  once,  she  was  always 
shocked.  She  said  the  boys  didn't  act  that  way 
when  she  was  a  girl.  I  rather  suppose  they 
didn't.  But  what  Miss  Carlton  was  and  what  I 
am  are  two  remotely  different  things.  Why,  you 
would  hardly  believe  we  are  both  feminine,  would 
you?" 

"No,"  said  Doris  honestly.  "One  can't  think 
of  any  two  things  more  different.  You  are  such 
a — such — " 

"Problem,"  laughed  Rosalie.  "Don't  I  know 
it?  Well,  you  can  not  solve  me,  Doris,  so  don't 
try.  But  I  am  just  like  those  horrible  trigonom- 
etry nightmares — you  can't  figure  them  out  to- 
save  your  life,  but  they  are  quite  perfectly  all 
right  in  spite  of  you." 

Doris  turned  to  give  her  sister  a  warm  adoring 
look.  "I  know  that,"  she  said  happily.  "Only, 
however  in  the  world  you  manage  to  say  such 
wonderful  things  with  your  eyes,  Rosalie — I've 
tried  and  tried — alone,  of  course,"  she  added 
22 


THE  GENERAL 

hastily.  "I  wouldn't  before  people  for  anything. 
But  I  can't  take  people's  breath  away  as  you  do," 

Rosalie's  voice  rippled  into  mellow  laughter. 
"You  will  learn.  No,  you  never  will,  Doris.  You 
will  fall  in  love,  and  marry  a  perfectly  adorable 
man,  and  have  perfectly  wonderful  babies,  and  be 
as  happy  as  the  day  is  long.  And  I  will  fritter 
along  and  sparkle  along,  and  have  a  hundred 
beaus,  and  Miss  Carlton  and  I  will  finish  up  to- 
gether. There  come  those  bad  girls.  Now  you 
just  scold  them,  General.  Don't  you  stand  for 
this  nonsense  any  more.  Why,  I  have  had  to  set 
the  table  every  night  for  a  week." 

The  younger  sisters  came  into  the  room  to- 
gether, as  they  went  everywhere  together.  They 
were  very  nearly  of  the  same  height,  though  one 
was  two  years  older. 

"Are  you  tired,  Treasure?"  asked  Doris 
quickly. 

"I  haven't  done  anything  but  laugh  all  after- 
noon," came  the  answer.  "Why  should  I  be 
tired?" 

Doris  looked  tenderly  from  the  face  of  one 
23 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

little  sister  to  the  other.  Treasure's  eyes  were 
clear,  serene  and  limpid.  Her  delicately  tinted 
olive  face  was  fine  and  spiritual.  And  right  by 
her  side  stood  Zee,  the  baby  of  the  manse,  thir- 
teen years  old,  dark  curls  a-tangle,  dark  eyes 
a-sparkle,  red  cheeks  aglow. 

"Oh,  you  little  Imp!"  cried  Rosalie.  "You 
look  just  awful." 

"I  do  not  think  so,"  said  Treasure  quickly. 
"She  looks  lovely  all  blown  about  like  that." 

Zee  laughed  at  them  both  with  charming  un- 
concern. "Do  I  have  to  brush  myself  down  be- 
fore dinner?"  she  demanded,  edging  toward  her 
corner  of  the  table. 

"Indeed  you  do;  wash  down,  and  brush  down, 
and  rub  down,  and  do  it  quickly,  for  here  comes 
father." 

Zee  obediently  skipped  up  the  stairs,  and  Rosa- 
lie ran  to  the  hall  to  greet  her  father. 

"And  how  is  the  Blessing  of  the  Manse?"  he 
asked,  crossing  the  room,  with  Rosalie  still  cling- 
ing to  his  arm,  to  look  tenderly  into  Treasure's 
soft  fine  face. 

24 


THE  GENERAL 

"Perfectly  all  right,"  came  the  even  answer. 

"But  not  very  healthy,"  put  in  Zee  slyly,  com- 
ing back  in  haste.  "Didn't  I  do  a  quick  job, 
General?  Treasure  is  all  right,  but  not  very 
healthy.  That  is  why  she  is  a  blessing.  Haven't 
you  noticed,  Rosalie,  that  blessings  are  very,  very 
frail?  Maybe  if  I  looked  sickish  you  would  call 
me  a  blessing,  too  ?" 

"Is  she  gone,  General?"  came  the  anxious 
whisper  as  the  father  drew  near  his  oldest  daugh- 
ter. "And  how  did  the  Problem  take  it?" 

"Gone,  father,  and  the  Problem  is  glad  of  it 
— we  might  have  known  she  would  be  whatever 
we  did  not  expect.  Now  I  am  the  General  in  very 
truth,  and  supper  is  ready — Zee,  don't  rush.  Just 
a  minute,  dear,  the  pear  preserves  won't  evapo- 
rate. You  mustn't  hurry  father  into  the  blessing." 

When  the  blessing  had  been  asked  on  their 
food  the  father  looked  about  the  little  round 
table,  and  his  face  was  richly  satisfied. 

"This  is  something  like,"  he  said,  smiling  into 
the  faces  of  his  four  girls. 

"Yes,  it  is  now,"  said  Rosalie.  "But  you  just 
25 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

wait  till  the  General  gets  started.  She  will  never 
let  us  slide  along  and  be  comfortable  as  Miss 
Carlton  did.  Wait  till  she  has  time  to  think  up 
orders !" 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    PROBLEM 

"/^"^ENERAL,  did  you  ask  father  if  we  may 
V — I  go  to  the  Country  Club  da — party?"  asked 
Rosalie,    in   her   most   irresistibly   wheedlesome 
tone. 

Doris  looked  very  sober.  "No,  I  didn't,"  she 
admitted  slowly.  "I  am  afraid  we — shouldn't, 
Rosalie.  We  haven't  anything  to  wear,  in  the 
first  place.  It  is  a  regular  party,  you  know." 

"That  is  why  I  want  to  go.  I  am  so  tired  of 
stupid  little  class  affairs,  and  Endeavor  socials. 
I  want  a  regular,  honest-to-goodness  party. 
Please,  Doris.  Lots  of  our  members  belong  to 
the  Country  Club.  It  is  very  respectable." 

"But  they  are  not  preachers,  and  we  are.  And 
we  haven't  any  regular  party  clothes." 

"Use  your  eyes,  my  belovedest,  and  no  one  will 
notice  your  clothes.  At  least,  the  men  won't," 
said  Rosalie  shrewdly. 

27 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Rosalie,  that  positively  is  not  nice.  You 
mustn't  do  it." 

"All  right,  General,  just  as  you  say.  But  your 
graduating  dress  is  very  sweet  and  becoming, 
and  I  can  wear  my  pink  crepe.  It  is  a  little  worn 
under  the  arms,  but  my  eyes —  Anyhow,  as  you 
say,  the  men  won't  pay  any  attention  to  our 
clothes." 

"I  did  not  say  any  such  thing.  How  could  we 
go,  Rosalie?  It  is  three  miles  out,  and  they  go  in 
cars — we  haven't  one,  and  we  can't  have  a  taxi, 
and  we  couldn't  go  alone  anyhow." 

"I  never  thought  of  that."  Rosalie  puzzled 
over  it  a  moment.  "I  have  it!  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Andrieson  will  go,  of  course.  And  they  have 
their  grand  big  car,  and  they  like  us  very  much, 
indeed." 

"They  aren't  members — " 

"Oh,  well,  there  are  a  few  quite  nice  people 
that  don't  belong  to  us.  And  they  are  terribly 
proper,  you  know,  and  go  everywhere." 

"But  we  can't  ask  to  go  with  them." 

"Why,  certainly  not.  We  won't  have  to." 
28 


THE  PROBLEM 

Rosalie  got  up  slowly.  "I  think  I  feel  like  taking 
a  stroll.  I  am  restless  to-day.  I  shall  just  saunter 
down  Lawn  Street,  and  maybe  Mrs.  Andrieson 
will  be  on  her  front  porch.  She  always  stops  me, 
if  she  is  in  sight." 

"You  must  not  ask  her — " 

"Oh,  Doris,  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing. 
But  she  is  sure  to  invite  us  to  go  with  her  when 
she  knows  we  were  asked.  And  so  if  father 
comes  in  while  I  am  gone,  you'd  better  have  it 
out  with  him.  There's  a  sweet  little  General." 

So  nicely  did  Rosalie  manage  her  meeting  with 
Mrs.  Andrieson  that  in  less  than  an  hour  she  was 
home  with  everything  planned  to  her  perfect  sat- 
isfaction. Mrs.  Andrieson  was  positively  yearn- 
ing to  take  them  to  the  Country  Club — it  would 
be  such  fun  to  play  chaperon  to  two  pretty  young 
girls.  To  Father  Artman,  one  party  was  just  like 
another — in  his  innocent  eyes  there  was  no  dif- 
ference between  an  Endeavor  Social  and  a  Coun- 
try Club  da — er,  party — except  that  he  had  never 
been  to  the  latter  in  person.  And  so  it  was  en- 
tirely settled  that  they  were  to  go,  long  before 
29 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

the  General  herself  was  at  all  convinced  as  to  the 
propriety  of  it. 

And  when  she  found  Rosalie  before  the  long 
•mirror  in  her  room,  with  the  soft  bands  of  lace 
at  the  throat  of  the  pink  dress  tucked  carefully 
underneath  and  out  of  sight,  permitting  a  quite 
generous  exposure  of  soft  white  throat  and 
shoulder,  Doris  knew  for  sure  that  it  was  a  great 
mistake. 

"Rosalie  Problematic  Artman,"  she  said 
sternly.  "We  shall  not  go  a  step  if  that  is  your 
plan." 

Rosalie  looked  tenderly  at  the  pink  shoulder. 
"Doesn't  it  look  nice,  Doris?"  Reluctantly  she 
restored  the  bands  to  their  proper  place.  "I  look 
like  a  silly  little  grammar-school  kid.  But  that  is 
what  we  get  for  being  preachers.  Never  mind.  I 
certainly  have  good  shoulders  if  ever — if  ever — " 

"If  ever  what?" 

"If  ever  I  do  get  a  chance  at  the  outside  of  the 
ministry,"  she  said  blithely.  "But,  of  course, 
father  would  faint  at  the  bare  idea,  though  it  is 
not  really  low  even  with  the  bands  turned  under 

30 


THE  PROBLEM 

• — nothing  at  all  like  the  dresses  other  women 
wear." 

Even  Doris  had  to  laugh  at  the  childish  fair 
face  and  the  childish  soft  voice  of  little  Rosalie 
as  she  descanted  on  the  matter  of  "other  women." 

And  Rosalie  smiled  good-naturedly.  "Shall  I 
teach  you  some  of  the  new  steps,  Doris?  Of 
course,  you  won't  dance,  but  it  will  be  more  fun 
looking  on  if  you  know  how  it  is  done." 

Doris  waved  the  pretty  temptress  away,  but 
she  laughed. 

On  the  night  of  the  "regular  party"  she  stood 
by  with  motherly  solicitude  while  Rosalie  piled 
her  golden  curls  high  on  her  head  and  drew  little 
shining  rings  down  low  before  her  ears. 

"I  suppose  even  we  preachers  can  fix  our  hair 
in  style,"  she  said  in  the  ripply  unruffled  voice. 
For  regardless  of  the  clash  of  circumstances  with 
her  personal  opinions  and  wants,  Rosalie  seldom 
showed  real  annoyance.  But  she  fingered  the 
bands  at  the  throat  of  her  dress  and  glanced  at 
Doris  with  speculating,  shining  eyes. 
31 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

The  General,  with  her  soft  curls  drooping  ten- 
derly about  her  face,  with  her  wide  frank  eyes, 
wearing  a  white  dress  cut  on  simple  lines,  seemed 
a  nice  and  bashful  child  beside  her  younger  sister, 
who  stoutly  decreed  that  eyes  are  a  talent,  given 
one  for  cultivation. 

When  the  Andriesons  sounded  their  horn  at 
the  gate  of  the  manse  the  girls  ran  down-stairs 
together,  hand  in  hand. 

"How  do  we  look,  father  ?"  asked  Doris,  stand- 
ing before  him,  straight  and  slim. 

"Like  a  fresh  white  morning-glory,"  he  said, 
kissing  her. 

"And  how  do  I  look?"  dimpled  Rosalie,  droop- 
ing her  warm  eyes  behind  long  lashes,  and  smil- 
ing seductively. 

"Like  an  enchanted  poppy  tossing  in  the  wind. 
Don't  try  to  practise  your  blandishments  on  me, 
you  little  siren.  Run  along  to  your  social,  and  be 
good  girls,  and  don't  you  flirt,  Miss  Rosalie,  or 
you'll  have  to  go  to  an  extra  prayer-meeting  next: 
week." 

Catching  a  hand  of  each,  with  Zee  and  Treas- 
32 


THE  PROBLEM 

ure  shouting  in  the  rear,  he  ran  down  the  steps 
with  them  and  out  the  stone  walk  to  the  motor, 
whirring  impatiently.  Then  the  car  rolled  away, 
and  the  girls  sauntered  back  to  the  house,  their 
arms  around  their  father. 

"Rosalie  is  going  to  have  the  time  of  her  life, 
dadsy,"  said  Zee  wisely.  "You  mark  my  words. 
She  wasn't  practising  those  eyes  on  you  for  noth- 
ing." 

"Oh,  Zee,  give  me  a  rest,"  he  cried,  laughing. 
"Rosalie  has  naughty  eyes,  I  know,  but  there  is 
a  lot  of  regular  sense  behind  those  curly  lashes." 

"Rosalie  isn't  going  to  let  folks  know  it, 
though,  unless  she  has  to,"  said  Zee,  and  the  sub- 
ject was  closed. 

But  Doris  soon  realized  that  charming  Mrs. 
Andrieson  was  no  efficient  chaperon  for  a  butter- 
fly like  Rosalie.  For  as  she  led  the  girls  into  the 
dressing-room  at  the  club  house,  she  said  lightly : 

"Now  toss  the  manse  to  the  winds,  my  dears, 
and  frolic  like  the  regular  buds  you  ought  to  be." 

"I  am  going  to,"  chirped  Rosalie.   "I  am  going 
to  frivol  just  as  hard  as  ever  I  can." 
33 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

She  asserted  her  independence  without  delay. 
"I  can  not  go  down  there  among  all  those  even- 
ing gowns  looking  like  this,"  she  said.  "Here, 
Mrs.  Andrieson,  can't  we  tuck  these  shoulder 
bands  back  a  little?" 

"To  be  sure  we  can,"  agreed  the  chaperon, 
and  laughing  excitedly,  she  folded  back  the  soft 
lace  from  Rosalie's  pretty  shoulders. 

"What  a  lovely  throat  you  have,  Rosalie.  Can't 
we  tuck  it  under  a  little  more?  That  shoulder  is 
too  beautiful  to  waste." 

"That  is  plenty,  thanks,"  cried  Rosalie,  laugh- 
ing nervously.  "If  it  is  too  terribly  awful,  I  won't 
do  it,  Doris,"  she  said,  looking  directly  at  her 
sister. 

Doris  returned  the  gaze  with  honest  searching 
eyes.  "It  isn't  too  terribly  bad,  Rosalie.  And  it 
does  look  lovely — and  lots  of  our  girls  wear  them 
much  lower  even  at  the  socials — but  father — " 

"Oh,  father  would  never  know  the  difference. 
An  inch  or  so  of  skin  is  nothing  to  us  preachers, 
you  know." 

It  was  a  lovely  evening,  in  spite  of  Rosalie's 
34 


THE  PROBLEM 

naughtiness.  Doris  was  fascinated  as  she  watched 
the  lightly  moving  figures  swaying  so  rhythmi- 
cally when  the  music  said  sway,  and  though  she 
so  many  times  had  to  say,  "I  am  sorry,  thank 
you,  I  do  not  dance,"  she  was  never  left  alone, 
and  the  hours  were  delightfully  frittered  with 
one  and  another  of  the  men — not  Christian  En- 
deavor men,  who  had  to  talk  of  church  things 
when  they  talked  with  members  of  the  manse — 
but  regular  men,  who  went  places,  and  did  things, 
and  had  their  names  in  the  paper — regular  men 
who  talked  of  things  that  interested  them.  And 
of  course  that  would  interest  Doris,  who  all  her 
life  had  been  in  training  for  interest  in  others' 
lives. 

Rosalie,  after  two  or  three  painful  refusals, 
clenched  her  slim  white  hands  and  ran  to  Doris. 

"General,"  she  whispered  hurriedly,  "you  may 
shoot  me  at  sunrise  if  you  like,  but  I  tell  you  right 
now  that  I  am  going  to  dance,  dance,  dance  the 
very  toes  off  my  slippers.  Yes,  sir;  I  am.  And  it 
will  be  worth  a  good  big  punishment.  To  stand 
here  like  a  mummy  and  say,  'I  can't' — it  is  more 
35 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

than  flesh  and  blood  can  stand — my  flesh  and 
blood,  anyhow." 

Doris  was  nothing  if  not  honest,  and  she  had 
to  admit  that  Rosalie  did  seem  almost  predes- 
tined for  that  one-two-three-skippity-skip-skip 
business !  But  the  members —  Oh,  of  course,  the 
members  were  doing  it  themselves,  and  Doris 
could  see  a  deacon  drinking  something  that — 
Well,  Doris  knew  they  never  served  it  at  the  En- 
deavor socials — but  things  were  so  different  with 
us  preachers,  so  very  different.  And  it  would 
hurt  father,  that  was  the  worst  of  it,  and  he  was 
such  a  good  dear  old  thing —  But  Doris  had  to 
sympathize  with  Rosalie  a  little.  Was  it  possible 
that  Providence  might  have  erred  a  tiny  bit  in 
putting  such  loveliness  and  such  naughtiness  and 
such  adorable  sweetness  into  the  gentle  environs 
of  a  manse? 

So  intent  was  Doris  upon  the  graceful  figure 
of  her  winsome  Problem  that  she  did  not  see 
the  man  who  had  stopped  at  her  side  and  was 
looking  down  with  quizzical  laughing  eyes  into 
her  anxious  face. 

36 


THE  PROBLEM 

"My,  such  a  lot  of  trouble,"  he  said  at  last, 
and  Doris  looked  up  astonished. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon — " 

"No  occasion  in  the  world.  I  was  laughing  at 
you,  so  I  must  do  the  apologizing.  But  I  feel 
justified  in  laughing  at  you.  This  isn't  any  place 
to  worry.  This  is  a  party.  Is  your  sweetheart 
dancing  too  often  and  too  tenderly  with  your 
lovely  friend?" 

"I  haven't  any  sweetheart,"  she  said,  laughing 
gaily  at  the  notion.  "It  is  my  sister  I  am  watch- 
ing. She  is  such  a  nice,  naughty  little  thing." 

She  pointed  Rosalie  out  to  him,  not  without 
pride,  and  flushed  with  pleasure  when  he  com- 
mented warmly  on  her  grace  and  beauty. 

"And  how  beautifully  she  dances." 

"Yes,  she  does,  the  little  sinner.  And  a  grand 
time  we'll  have  in  the  morning,  fixing  things  up 
with  father." 

"Doesn't  he  allow  you  to  dance  ?" 

"He  allows  us  to  do  anything,"  said  Doris  with 
loyal  dignity.  "But  we  do  not  do  it.  We  are 
preachers." 

3? 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"What,  all  of  you?" 

"Oh,  no,  just  father,  but  the  rest  of  us  back 
him  up,  you  know." 

"Well,  since  the  naughty  sister  has  involved 
the  family  in  disgrace,  why  don't  you  support 
her,  and  have  a  good  time  yourself?" 

"I  am  having  a  perfectly  wonderful  time, 
thank  you,  but  I  haven't  Rosalie's  feet  and  eyes. 
I  do  not  know  how  to  dance,  and  I  do  not  care  to 
learn.  Rosafie  gets  those  things  by  instinct,  but 
I  have  none.  She  is  the  butterfly  of  the  manse, 
and  one  is  plenty."  Then  looking  into  his  face 
gravely,  she  said,  "I  am  different.  Rosalie  is 
always  running  into  excitement  and  adventure. 
I  never  did  in  my  life.  I  went  clear  through 
college,  and  was  never  even  thrilled.  Rosalie  has 
thrills  a  dozen  times  a  day.  Of  course,  I  was 
busy.  We  had  Miss  Carlton,  but  I  did  most  of 
the  work,  and  there  was  the  church,  and  I  studied 
harder  than  Rosalie  does — I  had  to.  She  gets 
her  lessons  by  instinct,  too,  I  guess." 

"Then  very  plainly  now  is  your  time  for  play. 
If  excitement  does  not  come  to  you,  go  after  it. 
38 


THE  PROBLEM 

Look  for  your  thrills.  If  you  do,  you  will  find 
them.  If  you  do  not  stumble  into  romance,  as 
your  sister  does,  go  and  find  it  for  yourself." 

She  laughed  brightly  at  that.  "I  do  not  know 
where  to  look.  And  if  I  ran"  into-  it,  very  likely  I 
should  pass  it  by  unrecognized.  Rosalie  says  men 
are  the  best  thrillers,  but  they  do  not  thrill  me. 
She  says  I  am  too  sensible — sense  and  mystery 
go  in  opposite  directions  and  never  look  back." 
She  was  studying  him  curiously.  "I  beg  your 
pardon,  but  I  do  not  recall  your  name.  It  is  very 
stupid  of  me — 

"Not  at  all.  You  met  so  many  when  you  first 
came  in.  It  is  quite  natural  that  you  should  for- 
get a  few." 

Doris  thought  it  was  not  natural  to  forget 
those  kind  quizzical  eyes,  and  that  kind  teasing 
voice,  but  she  did  not  say  so.  Instead  she  waited. 
No  information  was  forthcoming. 

She  laughed  at  him,  wonderingly.  "But  I  still 
do  not  know  your  name." 

"No?  Then  here  is  a  bit  of  mystery  for  you. 
Who  am  I?  Whence  do  I  come?  Why  am  I 
39 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

here?  I  am  a  stranger,  but  you  will  see  me 
again." 

"You  must  be  one  of  the  new  school-teachers 
or  a  professor  in  the  college,"  she  ventured,  quite 
tingling  with  the  bit  of  novelty  new  to  her. 

"Yes  ?  Well,  I  am  going  to  run  away  now  and 
leave  you  to  your  chaperoning.  But  you  must  not 
forget  me,  little  morning-glory." 

"Why,  my  father  called  me  that  just  before  I 
left  the  house." 

"There  you  see,  I  am  a  wizard.  I  can  read 
your  inmost  thoughts.  I — " 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Doris  quickly. 

"Come  and  have  an  ice  with  me  before  I  go." 
He  led  her  through  a  quiet  hallway  to  a  corner 
of  the  wide  porch,  and  brought  ices  for  her,  and 
cake.  And  all  the  time  he  kept  up  that  boyish 
teasing  chatter,  and  always  she  watched  him  with 
curiosity  and  interest. 

"You  are  too  sensible  to  be  inquisitive.    You 

should  say,  Here  is  a  brand  from  the  burning,  I 

must  sow  a  good  seed  in  his  heart.    And  you 

should  not  even  ask  who,  nor  what,  nor  whither." 

40 


THE  PROBLEM 

"I  know  it,  but  I  do.  If  you  were  just  ordi- 
nary, I  should  not  care.  But  I  can't  imagine! 
You  haven't  been  here  a  long  time,  that  is  certain. 
Or  I  should  have  seen  you  before.  And  if  I  had, 
I  should  remember.  You  are  not  a  college  stu- 
dent, for  you  are  too  old — and  too  clever." 

"The  last  is  an  open  insult,  and  the  first  is 
only  dimly  veiled.  Now  walk  with  me  to  the 
gate,  Miss  Morning-Glory."  And  at  the  gate  he 
said,  in  a  curous,  half-sad  voice,  quite  different 
from  the  gay  bantering  tone  that  had  excited  her 
curiosity,  "You  are  a  nice  little  thing,"  and  went 
away. 

Doris  looked  after  him  in  astonishment. 
"Well,  can  you  beat  that?"  she  ejaculated. 
"Here  I  go  through  high  school,  and  through 
college,  and  now  when  I  am  a  grown-up  old 
woman,  and  the  head  of  a  house,  and  the  General 
of  a  mob — I  get  myself  all  mixed  up  in  a  funny 
business  like  this.  Who  in  the  world  can  he  be? 
And  where  in  the  world  did  he  come  from?  But 
he  said  I  should  see  him  again.  I  wonder  what 
that  bad  little  Rosalie  is  at  now  ?" 

41 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

And  though  she  went  immediately  back  to  her 
sister,  she  did  not  forget  the  kind  gray  eyes  and 
the  kind  gay  voice. 

"Did  you  have  a  nice  time,  Doris  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Andrieson  as  they  were  driving  swiftly  home- 
ward. 

"Wonderful,"  said  Doris  in  a  voice  of  ecstatic 
content. 

Mrs.  Andrieson  looked  at  her  curiously.  "I 
am  afraid  I  neglected  you.  I  had  such  a  hard  time 
keeping  the  boys  from  quarreling  over  Rosalie, 
and  I  knew  you  would  not  get  into  mischief." 

Now  that  it  was  all  over,  and  the  excitement 
and  the  thrill  were  gone,  Rosalie  was  quivering 
down  to  the  very  tips  of  her  slippers.  She  had 
disgraced  the  manse,  she  had  messed  things  up  for 
father — and  he  was  such  a  darling —  Oh,  Doris 
should  not  have  let  her!  People  would  think  it 
was  father's  fault — she  had  not  thought  of  that 
before,  now  she  could  think  of  nothing  else.  "He 
is  a  good  man,"  people  would  say,  "but  he  can 
not  control  his  children."  And  he  did  work  so 
hard,  and  was  so  patient — and  so  many  times  his 

42 


THE  PROBLEM 

eyes  looked  tired,  and  once  in  a  while,  but  not 
often,  he  would  admit  that  his  head  ached  a  bit. 

Doris  was  sympathetic  as  always,  sympathetic 
in  that  unvoiced  silence  that  understands  every- 
thing, and  hurts  not  a  single  particle.  She  knew 
by  instinct  that  Rosalie  was  sick  at  heart.  So 
they  talked  of  other  things,  and  after  they  got 
into  bed  she  said  tenderly : 

"You  were  lovely,  Rosalie,  and  I  was  so  proud 
of  you.  And  though  you  were  very  gay  and 
lively,  you  were  sweet,  and  had  a  sort  of  Pres- 
byterian dignity  about  you  that  made  you  dif- 
ferent." 

Rosalie  kissed  her  quickly,  but  did  not  speak. 

When  the  family  met  again  at  the  breakfast 
table  Zee  was  overwhelming  in  her  interest. 

"How  was  the  party?  Did  Rosalie  flirt?  Did 
all  the  men  fall  down  at  her  feet  stone  dead?" 

"No,  little  goose,  they  didn't.  Men  don't  any 
more.  And  Rosalie  did  not  flirt — exactly — and 
the  party  wras  glorious." 

Doris  did  not  glance  at  Rosalie,  intent  on  the 
oatmeal  before  her. 

43 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Were  you  the  most  beautiful  c-hes  there? 
Was  anybody  dazzled?  Did  the  women  wear 
low-necked  dresses  ?  Alice  Graves  says  they  don't 
wear  any  sleeves  at  all.  Did  they  dance?  Were 
there  any  members  there?  What  did  you  have 
to  eat?" 

"Oh,  you  little  chatter-box !  How  can  I  answer 
so  many  questions?  Rosalie  was  dazzling — did 
you  ever  dream  that  I  could  dazzle  anything? 
Yes,  the  ladies  did.  Yes,  they  danced.  Yes,  there 
were  a  lot  of  members.  They  had  ices,  and  cakes, 
and  coffee,  and  things  to  drink  and — " 

"And  father,"  said  Rosalie  suddenly,  "I  pinned 
down  the  lace  in  the  neck  of  my  dress  so  it  would 
show  my  shoulders." 

He  turned  to  Doris  for  confirmation. 

"Just  a  little,  father,"  she  said  loyally.  "It  did 
not  show  much,  and  Rosalie  looked  beautiful.  I 
did  not  object  to  it." 

"And  I  danced." 

This  was  nothing  short  of  a  bomb  bursting 
upon  them.  Even  Zee  was  silenced.  Doris  felt 
44 


THE  PROBLEM 

all  the  pain  of  motherhood  over  an  erring  first- 
born.  Slowly  their  father  rallied. 

"Did  you  do  it — well  ?  I  hope  you  didn't  stum- 
ble, or  walk  on  ladies'  dresses,  or  anything." 

"She  did  it  beautifully,"  said  Doris  meekly. 

"Father,  I  ask  you  frankly,  as  man  to  man,  is 
it  wrong  to  dance?" 

"We  have  been  taught,  Rosalie,"  he  began 
slowly,  but  she  interrupted  him. 

"That  isn't  fair.  You  tell  me  what  you  think. 
Why  should  we  leave  it  to  other  men  that  we 
don't  know?  How  can  they  decide?  Do  they 
know  more  about  it  than  we  do?  It  doesn't  con- 
demn it  in  the  Bible.  That  would  be  decisive.  But 
why  do  these  other  men  take  the  privilege  of  de- 
ciding things  for  the  rest  of  us?" 

"They  were  wise  men,  and  good.  We  let  great 
statesmen  make  our  laws,  and  we  obey.  We  let 
great  teachers  tell  us  what  and  how  to  study  that 
we  may  become  educated,  and  we  obey  them. 
We  let  great  doctors  tell  us  how  to  safeguard  our 
health,  and  we  obey  them.  We  let  the  leaders  m 

45 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

all  other  professions  tell  us  what  to  do,  where  to 
go,  what  to  eat,  what  to  wear — and  we  obey. 
\Ve  might  trust  the  fathers  of  the  church  a  little, 
tfon't  you  think?" 

"But  it  is  such  a  simple  thing.  And  so  natural. 
Just  moving  to  music,  that  is  all.  Soldiers  love  to 
march  to  the  drum,  children  prance  to  the  music 
of  the  band.  It  is  human  nature." 

"My  dear,  if  you  want  to  move  to  music,  let 
Zee  here  go  up  and  down  town  beating  a  drum 
for  you,  and  you  march  your  little  head  off." 

Rosalie  joined  the  laughter.  "I  like  the  other 
kind  better.  Then  you  truly  think  it  is — danger- 
ous, or  wrong,  or  unwise,  or  something?" 

"I  have  never  danced  myself,  dear." 

"Stand  up  here,  and  let  me  show  you.  Now, 
you  go  this  way.  One,  two,  three;  one,  two, 
three;  skippity,  skip,  skip;  one,  two,  three — and 
that  is  all  there  is  to  it" 

"Simple,  isn't  it?" 

"Perfectly  simple.   Now  is  that  wrong?" 

"Well,  Rosalie,  I  tell  you  frankly,  as  man  to 
man,  if  I  were  young  and  had  a  soft  shoulder 

46 


THE  PROBLEM 

like  yours  against  my  arm,  and  a  pretty  face  like 
yours  very  close  to  my  lips — I  should  probably 
be  tempted  to  kiss  it." 

"Oh,  father,"  cried  Rosalie,  joining  the  burst 
of  laughter.  "You  would  not  do  it,  surely." 

"Not  in  public,  no.  And  I  may  add,  if  I  had  a 
pretty  hand  like  yours  in  mine,  I  should  probably 
squeeze  it,  and  if  I  had  my  arm  around  your 
waist  like  this — I'd  probably  squeeze  that,  too." 

Merry  laughter  greeted  the  admission.  Then  in 
the  silence  that  followed  he  said  slowly.  "There 
are  many  things  I  could  do,  Rosalie,  that  would 
do  me  no  harm,  and  others  no  harm.  But  would 
I  get  pleasure  enough  out  of  the  doing  to  make 
it  worth  my  while?  Suppose  even  one  person 
should  say,  'He  is  a  vain  and  worldly  man,  I  do 
not  wish  to  go  to  him  in  my  trouble.'  If  one  per- 
son should  say  that  of  me,  I  would  consider  I 
had  paid  too  big  a  price  for  the  little  amusement. 
It  may  be  one  of  the  things  we  give  in  return  for 
the  badge  of  the  ministry,  my  dear — I,  for  one, 
am  willing  to  give  it.  It  is  the  one  big  talent  of 
our  profession — the  talent  of  giving  up." 

47 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

Rosalie  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"And  I  believe  that  any  one  who  is  not  willing 
to  exercise  that  talent  does  not  fit  into  a  manse." 

Rosalie  swallowed  hard.  "I — I  do  fit,  father — 
I  want  to.  I — I  could  never  be  happy  any  place 
in  the  world — outside  the  manse."  Then  she 
added  brightly,  "So  I  must  never  dance  any 
more?" 

"Ask  the  General,"  he  hedged  quickly.  "She  is 
the  head  of  the  family." 

"Well,  General,  speak  up,  how  about  it?" 

"What  a  naughty  Problem  you  are,"  said  the 
General  tenderly.  "Well,  then,  if  it  is  up  to  me, 
I  say  this:  Father  has  put  it  to  you  squarely. 
And  I  know  this,  Rosalie,  that  when  anything 
is  put  squarely  on  your  own  shoulders,  you 
straighten  up  and  carry  it  without  flinching.  You 
are  old  enough  to  solve  your  own  troubles.  This 
is  yours — find  the  answer  for  yourself." 

"Oh,  you  bad  General,"  cried  Rosalie,  laugh- 
ing. "Now  I  can  not  blame  it  on  any  one  but 
myself,  and  I  did  so  want  to  sympathize  with  my- 
self, and  say,  'I  can  dance  wonderfully,  but  they 

48 


THE  PROBLEM 

won't  let  me.'  Oh,  well,  I  should  worry.  And, 
General,  by  the  way,  I  may  as  well  confess  that  I 
was  jealous  of  you  last  night.  You  were  so  dif- 
ferent, and  so  remote — every  one  had  to  go  to 
you,  away  from  the  whirl,  back  into  your  corner 
where  you  stood  serene.  I  kept  thinking  what  a 
nice  manse  type  you  are,  always  distinct,  always 
different,  and  sweeter  than  anything.  So  I  had 
already  decided — I  just  wanted  to  find  out  what 
you  would  say." 

Then  Rosalie  was  gone  in  a  flash,  chasing  Zee 
put  into  the  garden  for  a  merry  frolic. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   IMP 

"T  T  THY,  Zee,  however  did  you  happen  to 

V  V  get  here  ahead  of  time?"  demanded 
Doris,  glancing  up  from  the  potatoes  she  was 
watching  so  closely,  for  potatoes  have  a  most  an- 
noying way  of  burning  if  you  leave  them  a  min- 
ute. It  had  taken  Doris  a  long  time  to  learn  that. 

"Urn,  yes,  I  am  a  little  early,  I  guess,"  said 
Zee,  in  a  still  small  voice.  She  busied  herself 
about  the  table  without  reminder  from  her  sister, 
an  unwonted  procedure  for  the  Imp,  but  Doris 
was  too  concerned  with  the  meal  to  pay  much 
heed. 

Rosalie  and  Treasure  came  in  together  a  few 
moments  later,  and  Zee  was  sent  to  call  their 
father  to  the  table. 

"And  don't  dawdle,  Babe,  for  things  are  pip- 
ing hot,  and  we  must  allow  three  minutes  for  the 
blessing,  you  know." 

50 


THE  IMP 

Zee's  appetite,  usually  above  reproach,  was 
negligible  that  day,  and  her  gay  voice,  always 
so  persistent  in  conversation,  was  quite  subdued. 
But  when  the  meal  was  over  she  lifted  modest 
eyes  to  her  father's  face. 

"I  hope  you  aren't  very  exceptionally  busy  to- 
day, father,"  she  began  ingratiatingly. 

"I  am.  I  have  Davison's  funeral  to-morrow — 
and  it  is  not  easy  to  conduct  the  funeral  services 
of  a  bad  man  in  a  way  that  will  afford  comfort  to 
his  mourning  relatives." 

"I  knew  you  would  have  a  hard  time  of  it, 
father,"  said  Doris  sympathetically.  "I  was  hop- 
ing they  would  get  some  one  else —  The  Metho- 
dist minister  is  new  here,  and  doesn't  know  Davi- 
son  as  we  did." 

"One  good  thing  about  him,  father,"  said 
Rosalie,  "he  never  killed  any  one  that  we  know 
of.  You  can  come  down  strong  on  that,  and  sort 
of  glide  over  everything  else  we  know  about 
him." 

"I  suppose  one  should  come  out  flat-footed  and 
hold  him  up  as  a  model  to  other  people  who  won't 

51 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

keep  to  the  straight  and  narrow,"  said  Doris 
thoughtfully. 

"Perhaps.  But  a  kind  Providence  has  made  if 
unnecessary  for  us  to  judge,  you  must  remem- 
ber." 

"We  can  have  our  opinions,  like  other  people, 
Jbut  we  must  not  air  them  in  the  pulpit,"  said 
Rosalie. 

"But  whatever  will  you  say,  father?  He  was 
everything  a  good  Presbyterian  is  not,  and — " 

"Doctor  Burgess  used  to  say  that  death  blots 
out  all  evil,"  said  Rosalie  helpfully.  "Can't  you 
play  that  up?" 

Mr.  Artman  smiled  at  their  eagerness  to  be  of 
help.  "I  shall  just  speak  of  the  rest  and  sweetness 
of  death  after  a  life  of  turmoil  and  confusion, 
and  shall  emphasize  very  strongly  how  blessed 
it  is  that  the  soul  goes  direct  to  the  presence  of 
God,  who  knows  all  the  secret  motives  hidden 
from  human  eyes." 

"That  is  downright  genius,"  approved  Doris. 

"Pretty  slick,  I  call  it,"  smiled  Rosalie. 

"Will  you  be  busy  the  whole  afternoon,  fa- 
52 


THE  IMP 

ther?"  asked  Zee,  returning  to  the  original  sub- 
ject. 

"Did  you  want  something?"  He  turned  and 
looked  at  her,  and  from  her  sober  face  he  caught 
the  underlying  need.  "I  always  have  time  for  my 
girls,  you  know.  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?"- 

"I  am  sorry  but  I  am  in  bad  at  school  again." 

"Again,"  repeated  Rosalie.  "Don't  you  mean 
still?" 

"Miss  Hodges  wants  you  to  come  with  me — > 
that  is,  she  says  I  can  not  come  back  until  you 
do.  She  is  going  to  ask  you  to  give  a  sort  of 
pledge  of  good  behavior  for  me,  and  you  can't  do 
it,  for  I  am  sure  to  break  over  once  in  a  while. 
So  there  you  are.  Don't  you  think  Doris  could 
teach  me  at  home  this  year?" 

"But  what  in  the  world  did  you  do,  dear?"  de- 
manded Doris. 

"Well,  you  will  be  horrified,  of  course,  Doris 
— but  it  wasn't  as  bad  as  it  sounds.  I  did  not  feel 
well  to  begin  with,  and  things  went  wrong  from 
the  first.  Walter  Dwight  had  some  candy,  and 
he  passed  it  to  me,  and  I  was  eating  it — " 

53 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"In  school?" 

"Yes.  And  Miss  Hodges  saw  me  and  told  me 
to  go  to  the  window  and  throw  it  out — a  very 
bad  and  unsanitary  thing,  throwing  candy  all 
over  the  play-grounds,  but  Miss  Hodges  makes 
tis  do  it — and  so  I  went  to  the  window  and  looked 
out — and — I  stood  there  a  minute  or  so  looking 
around  to  see  what  was  going  on  in  the  play- 
ground, and  I  saw  a  robin  sitting  in  the  big 
maple,  and  I  squinted  my  eye  up  at  him,  and 
aimed  with  the  candy,  and  shot  it  at  him." 

Zee  looked  up  sadly,  and  then  lowered  her  eyes 
again.  "Everybody  laughed,  and  Miss  Hodges 
was  not  at  all  pleased.  She  said  I  was  a  little 
nuisance." 

A  vague  flickering  smile  passed  from  face  to 
face  around  the  table. 

"What  else?" 

"She  sent  me  into  the  science  room  to  sit  by 
myself  half  an  hour  and  think.  Professor  was 
not  there." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"I  sat  there." 

54 


[THE  IMP 

"Yes?" 

"Well,  I  kept  on  sitting  there,  and  it  was  aw- 
fully monotonous.  You  know  we  have  a  skeleton 
in  the  physiology  department  now — I  told  you, 
didn't  I?  It  was  stuck  up  on  the  side  of  the  wall 
on  long  hooks.  And  Professor's  big  amber 
glasses  were  on  the  desk — the  girls  say  he  wears 
them  for  style — so  I  put  them  on  the  skeleton.  It 
looked  awfully  funny.  And  then  Satan  must  have 
tempted  me,  for  I  did  a  terrible  thing." 

A  long  sigh  went  up  from  the  table. 

"The  teachers'  cloak-room  opens  from  the  sci- 
ence room." 

"I  see  it  all,"  said  Doris  solemnly. 

"Go  on,  Zee.  I  don't  get  you,  yet." 

"The  teachers'  wraps  were  in  the  cloak-room. 
So  I  got  Miss  Hodges'  hat  and  put  it  on  the 
skeleton,  and  it  looked  so  comical  you  would  have 
laughed."  A  sad  reminiscent  smile  flashed  over 
the  subdued  but  always  impish  features.  "So  I 
put  her  coat  on  too — it  almost  made  me  shiver  to 
touch  the  thing,  though  Professor  says  it  is  very 
scientific,  and  he  disinfected  it  with  something 

55 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

when  they  got  it.  And  I  bent  up  its  arm,  and 
stuck  her  gloves  in  its  fingers,  and  put  her  bag 
over  the  arm,  and  it  looked  for  all  the  world  like 
Miss  Hodges  in  a.  grouch,  and  she  is  grouchy 
most  of  the  time." 

"Yes?" 

"But  I  did  not  hear  the  recitation  bell  ring,  and 
the  door  opened  and  in  came  the  physical  geog- 
raphy class  and  Miss  Hodges.  She  was  not  at  all 
pleased.  So  she  invited  father  to  come  and  talk 
me  over  with  her." 

"All  right,  I  will  go,"  said  Mr.  Artman  quietly. 

Zee  sighed  heavily.  "I  hope  you  understand, 
father,  that  I  know  it  was  a  perfectly  repre — 
repre — " 

" — hensible,"  prompted  Treasure  softly. 

"Yes,  reprehensible  thing  to  do,  and  I  am  fear- 
fully  ashamed  of  it.  And  it  makes  me  sick  to 
think  I  had  to  bother  you  when  you  are  busy. 
But  Miss  Hodges  need  not  have  been  so  huffy 
about  it.  She's  got  a  little  more  flesh,  but  her  dis- 
position isn't  half  as  good  as  a  skeleton's." 

"Zee,  you  must  not  speak  disrespectfully  and 
56 


THE  IMP 

flippantly  of  your  teachers.  It  is  not  right,  and 
it  is  not  kind.  If  Miss  Hodges  has  a  room  full  of 
children  as  full  of  mischief  as  you  are,  it  is  no 
wonder  she  is  sometimes  impatient  and  nervous." 

Zee  subsided. 

Mr.  Artman  rose  from  the  table  rather  wearily 
and  Zee  brought  his  hat  for  him  humbly. 

"I  hope  you  believe  that  I  am  sorry,  father," 
she  said  as  they  set  out  together. 

"I  think  you  are  sorry  to  bother  me,  but  I 
must  admit  that  I  do  not  think  you  are  sorry  you 
annoyed  Miss  Hodges." 

"I  do  think  it  was  rather  a  good  joke  on  her," 
admitted  Zee. 

"Miss  Hodges  is  doing  one  good  and  noble 
thing.  She  is  working  hard,  long  hours  and  very 
wearily  to  earn  money  for  herself  and  her  mother 
and  that  little  nephew  who  lives  with  them.  She 
has  to  labor  for  her  very  bread,  and  for  theirs 
also.  Any  one  who  makes  life  harder  than  need 
be  for  those  who  must  toil  for  their  existence  is 
— excuse  me,  dear — but  any  one  who  does  that 
is  either  needlessly  cruel  or  criminally  thought- 

57 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

less.  Whether  she  is  the  type  of  woman  you  like, 
whether  she  appeals  to  you  personally  or  not — 
that  is  nothing.  The  fact  remains  that  she  is 
working  for  her  life — and  I  hate  tp  think  it  is 
my  little  girl  making  things  hard  for  her." 

Zee  marched  along  beside  him  sturdily,  without 
speaking  for  a  while.  Her  dark  merry  eyes  were 
clouded.  Her  rosy  lips  were  a  straight  scarlet 
line.  Two  blocks,  three  blocks,  they  traversed  in 
silence.  Then  she  slipped  little  clinging  fingers 
into  his  hand,  and  said  softly: 

"Father,  I  am  sorry  now — and  I  won't  ever, 
any  more.  I  have  tried  to  tease  her,  and  I  like 
to  make  the  other  kids  laugh.  But  I  never 
thought  of  it  the  way  you  told  me.  Will  you  try 
not  to  be  ashamed  of  me?" 

His  hand  closed  over  hers  companionably. 

"And,  father,  you  need  not  believe  me  to-day 
< — that  I  am  sorry.  Wait  and  I  will  prove  it  to 
you.  For  don't  you  think  I  see  that  we  preachers 
have  to  make  things  easier  for  folks,  instead  of 
harder?" 

58 


THE  IMP 

"I  do  believe  you,  of  course,  Baby,"  he  said, 
smiling  down  on  the  sober  face. 

Even  he  could  not  repress  a  smile  when  Miss 
Hodges  came  in  wearing  her  coat  and  hat,  with 
the  bag  in  the  crook  of  her  arm — for  in  his  mind, 
schooled  to  imaginative  flights  by  a  long  life  with 
merry  daughters — he  could  see  the  scientific 
skeleton  similarly  garbed. 

Miss  Hodges'  face  was  grave,  but  not  un- 
friendly. 

"I  think  Zee  can  fix  this  up  with  you  herself, 
Miss  Hodges,"  he  said,  holding  her  hand  warmly 
in  his.  "I  need  not  say  how  much  I  regret  it — but 
Zee  and  I  have  been  talking  together — and  I 
want  her  to  speak  for  herself." 

"I  am  sorry  this  time,  truly — not  just  for  play- 
ing pranks,  for  somehow  that  never  seems  really 
bad  to  me — it  must  be  the  original  sin,  I  suppose. 
'But  I  am  sorry  that  I  have  just  openly  tried  to 
make  things  mean  and  hateful  for  you.  I  never 
thought  of  it  that  way  before.  I  thought  it  was 
sort  of  your  job  to  put  up  with  the  mischief.  I 

59 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

can't  promise  to  be  an  angel  like  Treasure,  for  I 
was  not  born  like  that.  But  I  am  going  to  try 
very  hard  not  to  annoy  you,  and  I'd  like  to  be 
friends,  if  you  don't  mind." 

Thinking  it  over  afterward,  Father  Artman 
felt  that  Zee  had  left  many  loopholes  for  future 
escapades,  but  her  voice  had  been  sincere,  and 
her  eyes  honest,  and  Miss  Hodges  had  accepted 
the  apology  promptly.  And  knowing  his  girls, 
Mr.  Artman  felt  confident  that  Zee's  loyalty  to 
the  manse  would  keep  her  from  open  disgrace 
again. 

"Something  just  has  to  be  done  about  that 
Zee,"  Rosalie  said  to  Doris.  "And  it  certainly  is 
up  to  you,  General.  Why,  she  gets  more  scatter- 
brained and  harum-scarum  every  day.  Can't  you 
steady  her  up  a  little  ?" 

"How?  It  is  all  right  to  say  it  is  up  to  me — 
but  who  can  take  a  puff  of  thistledown  like  Zee 
and  steady  it?  She  does  no4"  grow  that  way." 

"Well,  this  will  hold  her  down  for  a  week  or 
so,  but  you'd  better  think  up  some  way  of  han- 
dling her.  Something  has  to  be  done,  and  right 

60 


THE  IMP 

away,  too.  Why,  she  is  fourteen,  and  in  high 
school.  I  was  practically  a  young  lady  when  I 
was  in  high  school." 

"You  were  practically  a  young  lady  when  you 
were  in  kindergarten,"  said  Doris  gaily.  "My, 
what  pretty  airs  you  did  put  on.  You  always 
would  carry  the  finest  handkerchiefs,  and  how 
you  would  scheme  to  get  a  fresh  ribbon  oftener 
than  anybody  else." 

It  did  seem  that  so  severe  a  lesson  as  this 
should  be  sufficient  even  for  the  Imp.  Yet  the 
very  next  morning  Doris  found  herself  in- 
volved once  more.  Going  to  the  girls'  closet  on 
an  errand,  she  was  surprised  to  find  Zee's  school 
shoes,  sensible,  comfortable,  roomy  shoes  of  en- 
during calf-skin.  The  "Sunday  shoes,"  of  nice 
shiny  patent  leather,  were  not  in  sight.  Yet  Zee 
had  gone  to  school. 

"She  is  almost  as  problematic  as  Rosalie  her- 
self," said  Doris. 

She  knew  Zee's  passion  for  the  Sunday  shoes, 
and  that  the  calf -skin  ones  were  abhorred  by  her 
fastidious  young  soul.  But  that  she  would  openly 
61 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

revolt  and  toss  all  orders  to  the  winds — Doris 
grieved  over  it  heavily.  But  she  would  not  take 
this  to  father,  poor  soul,  he  had  trouble  enough 
with  her  yesterday,  and  Davison's  funeral  to-day 
was  grief  enough. 

When  Zee  came  into  the  dining-room  at  noon 
she  wore  the  calf-skin  boots.  Doris  could  hardly 
believe  her  eyes.  Yet  there  they  were — and  a  se- 
rene smile  on  Zee's  merry  face. 

"Miss  Hodges  and  I  got  along  like  cooing 
doves  this  morning,"  she  announced  triumph- 
antly. "She  said  I  had  my  lesson  perfectly,  and 
I  said  her  new  hat  was  very  becoming." 

When  the  girls  came  to  the  kitchen  to  say 
good-by  to  Doris  before  starting  back  to  school, 
she  left  her  work  and  followed  them  to  the  front 
door.  Zee  still  wore  the  heavy  shoes,  but  she 
hung  about  impatiently,  plainly  waiting  till  Doris 
should  return  to  her  work.  At  last,  depressed  in 
attitude,  the  two  girls  started  away,  and  Doris 
disappeared.  Just  a  moment  later  came  the  sound 
of  skipping  running  steps,  and  Zee  slipped  in  and 
darted  for  the  stairs. 

62 


THE  IMP 

"Zee!" 

Zee  halted  abruptly,  one  foot  poised  for  the 
step. 

"Were  you  going  up  to  change  your  shoes  ?" 

«Y— yes." 

"Don't  you  know  you  are  not  allowed  to  wear 
your  Sunday  shoes  to  school?" 

"Y— yes." 

"Then  why,  please?" 

"Because  I  hate  calf-skin  shoes,  I  hate  'em,  I 
hate  'em.  Big  ugly  clumsy  clod-hoppery  stogies ! 
I  think  they  are  abominable.  I'll  bet  they  were 
the  thorn  in  the  flesh  Peter  talked  about — or  was 
it  Paul?  Anyhow,  I  can't  think  of  any  worse 
kind  of  a  thorn.  I  think  they  are  downright 
wicked.  And  I  won't  wear  them — unless  I  have 
to,"  she  added  hastily,  noting  the  military  firm- 
ness in  the  General's  face. 

"I  am  sorry,  Zee,  since  you  hate  them  so  ter- 
ribly. They  are  not  pretty,  I  know.  But  if  you 
wear  the  Sunday  ones  to  school,  they  wear  out 
so  fast,  and  they  are  so  expensive.  And,  oh,  my 
dearest,  we  could  never  afford  it  on  father's  sal- 
63 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

ary,  you  know  that.  But  I  will  compromise  with 
you,  for  I  don't  like  to  make  you  wear  things  you 
despise.  If  you  will  wear  these  out,  when  they 
are  gone,  your  next  pair  of  school  shoes  shall  be, 
not  patent  leather,  but  much  finer  and  softer  than 
these — oh,  much  finer." 

"Oh,  that  is  just  ducky  of  you,  General,"  said 
Zee  gratefully.  "But  mayn't  I  wear  the  others — 
just  this  afternoon?" 

"No,  absolutely  not.  You  were  very  deceitful 
and  disobedient,  slipping  in  to  change  them  on  the 
sly,  that  way,  and  you  shall  not  wear  the  others 
by  any  means." 

But  the  next  morning,  as  Doris  stood  at  the 
window  watching  the  girls  as  they  walked  away, 
she  noted  a  curious  bulging  under  the  side  of 
Zee's  sweater. 

What  could  it  be,  she  wondered?  Then  like  a 
flash,  she  ran  up  the  stairs.  The  Sunday  shoes 
were  gone — also  the  calf-skin  ones.  Grimly  she 
waited  until  Zee  came  home. 

"Zee,"  she  began  softly,  so  father  might  not 
overhear,  poor  father,  having  so  much  trouble 

64 


THE  IMP 

with  bad  people  who  would  die  and  require  fu- 
neral services,  and  good  people  who  would  live 
and  never  go  to  church — certainly  he  should  not 
be  bothered  with  Zee's  shoe  situation. 

"Did  you  wear  your  calf -skin  shoes  to  school 
this  morning?" 

"Y — yes,  I  wore  them  to  school,"  said  Zee 
with  an  almost  imperceptible  emphasis  on  the 
"to." 

"Did  you  take  the  Sunday  ones  with  you?" 

"Yes.  Doris,  I  can't  bear  those  old  stogies,  and 
so  I  just  wore  them  to  school,  and  then  I  changed 
them  in  the  cloak-room,  and  you  can  see  yourself 
it  wouldn't  wear  them  out  any — the  good  ones,  I 
mean — just  wearing  them  inside  the  school-room 
and  not  walking  in  them." 

"But  you  disobeyed." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Zee  cheerfully, 

"And  you  tried  to  deceive  me." 

"I  know  it." 

"Now  I  have  to  punish  you." 

"All  right,  General,  but  let  me  tell  you  in  ad- 
yance  that  whenever  I  can  sneak  those  Sunday 

65 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

shoes  to  school,  I  am  going  to.  So  you'd  bettw 
make  it  a  good  punishment  while  you  are  at  it,  so 
you  won't  have  to  do  it  over  and  over." 

Doris  looked  at  her  sister  soberly,  and  her 
heart  swelled  with  pity,  for  the  sentence  she  was 
about  to  pronounce  was  dire  indeed. 

She  took  the  fine  shoes  from  Zee.  "This  is  the 
punishment.  You  can  not  wear  the  fine  shoes 
again  any  place  for  six  weeks — not  to  church, 
nor  any  place — just  the  stogies,  everywhere  you 
go.  And  you  shall  not  have  these  again  at  all  until 
you  promise  on  your  word  of  honor  that  you  will 
not  wear  them  without  permission.  I  know  you 
will  not  break  a  solemn  promise." 

Zee's  face  paled  with  the  solemnity  of  it.  "Oh, 
Doris!" 

"You  can  talk  it  over  with  father  if  you  like. 
I  wanted  to  keep  him  from  worry,  but  go  to  him 
if  you  wish." 

"Nothing  doing,"  said  Zee  flatly.  "He  has  that 
way  of  looking  that  makes  you  so  ashamed  of 
yourself.  I  think  it  is  an  imposition  for  fathers 
to  look  like  that,  that's  what  I  think.  Tell  me 

66 


THE  IMP 

one  thing — does  the  promise  still  hold  good  about 
the  new  shoes — that  they  are  to  be  finer  and 
softer  than  these  when  they  are  worn  out?" 

"Yes — when  these  are  worn  out." 

"These  will  last  a  year,  I  know." 

"Oh,  Baby,  you  know  we  preachers  can't  af- 
ford to  throw  away  perfectly  good  shoes  like 
these." 

"Can't  we  give  'em  to  the  heathen?  They  are 
awfully  good  shoes  for  the  heathen,  Doris.  Why, 
they  would  last  forever,  and  keep  the  snakes  off, 
and —  Shoes  like  that  were  just  intended  for 
heathen." 

"I  am  afraid  we  can't,  Zee.  Sometimes  I  think 
there  is  quite  a  lot  in  common  between  the  heath- 
ens and  us  preachers — and  this  is  another  bond 
of  sympathy.  So  we  will  stick  to  the  shoes  our- 
selves." 

Zee  looked  very  sad  indeed  as  the  shiny  shoes 
were  taken  up-stairs  and  carefully  locked  in  an 
old  trunk.  Then  sudden  determination  dawned  in 
her  dark  bright  face. 

She  raced  into  the  yard,  and  began  a  desperate 
67 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

course  of  exercise,  jumping,  running,  clambering 
tip  and  down.  Gentle  Treasure,  trailing  her  de- 
votedly, was  put  to  woeful  plights.  And  Doris, 
looking  out,  could  hardly  believe  her  eyes  when 
she  saw  the  violent  performance  of  lazy  little 
Zee.  Then  came  revelation. 

"I  am  sorry  for  you,  Treasure,"  panted  Zee, 
pausing  a  moment.  "But  I  am  going  to  run  and 
jump  and  climb  and  jar  the  life  out  of  these  old 
stogies." 

For  a  moment  Doris  hesitated.  Then  she 
turned  resolutely  and  closed  the  window. 

"Providence  had  to  overlook  quite  a  little,  even 
in  the  saints  in  the  Bible,"  she  said  to  herself  ex- 
cusingly.  "I  guess  I  can  overlook  a  few  things 
myself.  Isn't  it  strange,"  she  said  to  Rosalie, 
"that  somehow  the  naughtier  folks  act  the 
sweeter  they  seem?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about," 
laughed  Rosalie.  "But  if  you  mean  me,  I  quite 
agree  with  you." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    BLESSING 

OH,  day  of  rest  and  gladness! 
There  was  one  hour  in  the  week  when 
Doris  felt  she  could  lean  back  and  sigh  aloud  in 
relief  and  contentment,  with  every  member  of  her 
little  family  before  her  and  mischief  out  of  the 
question — the  hour  of  the  Sabbath  morning  wor- 
ship. Father  was  in  the  pulpit,  Rosalie  was  at 
her  side  in  the  choir  loft — and  Rosalie  in  the 
choir  loft  was  a  changed  being,  for  some  inner, 
inherent  sense  of  fineness  restrained  the  naughty 
fairies  in  her  witching  eyes  for  that  one  hour 
only.  And  down  in  the  eighth  pew  to  the  right 
sat  Treasure  and  Zee,  very  respectable,  very  rev- 
erent, very  austere. 

Rosalie  never  missed  one  word  of  her  father's 
discourses,  but  Doris,  strangely  enough,  once  in 
a  while  went  wandering.  It  was  so  blissful  to  see 
the  brood  safe  sheltered  before  her  eyes.  It  really 

69 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

was  the  only  time  when  she  could  think  with  any 
degree  of  consistency  or  comfort,  without  fear 
of  violent  and  climactic  interruption. 

But  one  morning,  just  as  she  was  getting  pleas- 
antly relaxed,  and  father  was  nicely  started  in 
Point  One — she  opened  her  eyes  wide,  and  leaned 
forward.  There  in  the  ninth  pew  next  to  the  aisle 
— Deacon  Fenton's  pew,  and  how  annoyed  he 
would  be  when  he  arrived  in  the  middle  of  Point 
Two — right  there,  as  sure  as  you're  born,  sat  that 
aggravating,  infuriating,  mysterious  Mr.  Wizard 
that  nobody  knew. 

His  eyes  were  upon  her,  and  though  his  face 
remained  properly  grave  and  in  keeping  with  a 
Presbyterian  service,  gay  greeting  flashed  from 
his  eyes  to  her,  and  Doris —  Well,  it  was  more 
than  human  frailty  could  stand.  She  smiled,  and 
then  she  blushed,  and  could  not  keep  her  eyes 
away  from  that  serene  provoking  face,  though 
she  did  try  desperately  and  was  ashamed  of  her- 
self all  the  time.  Father  was  doing  splendidly — > 
she  was  subconsciously  aware  of  that,  and  was  so 
proud  of  him.  It  had  never  before  been  quite  so 

70 


THE  BLESSING 

imperatively  necessary  that  he  "do  well."  Rosa- 
lie looked  very  sweet  and  dignified,  altogether  in 
keeping  with  a  manse  and  a  church,  and  not  a  bit 
frivolous  as  she  had  at  the  Country  Club  da — 
party — that  was  a  comfort.  She  was  sorry  she 
could  not  point  out  Treasure  and  Zee  to  him  also, 
they  did  look  so  spiritual  and  fine  in  their  Sunday 
clothes — it  was  really  once  in  a  lifetime  to  desig- 
nate them  as  manse  material.  He  seemed  to  be 
paying  close  attention  to  father —  Whoever  in 
the  world  could  he  be?  And  there  came  Deacon 
Fenton,  sure  enough — with  his  usual  prejudice 
against  the  first  point — and  he  got  very  red  in  the 
face,  but  the  Exasperating  Thing  smiled  pleas- 
antly and  shoved  along  in  the  seat,  and  settled 
down  where  he  could  see  father  when  he  looked 
at  the  pulpit,  and  could  see  Doris  when  he  looked 
at  the  choir  loft,  and — Doris  openly  and  delib- 
erately nudged  her  sister. 

The  Exasperating  Thing  lowered  his  eyes  at 
her  reprovingly,  but  Doris  could  not  resist. 

"Who  is  that  in  Deacon  Fenton's  pew?"  she 
whispered. 

71 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

Rosalie  looked  that  way  unconcernedly — she 
did  not  seem  to  notice  how  romantic  and  curious 
and  compelling  he  was — and  shook  her  head. 
Doris  subsided  then,  but  when  she  came  down 
from  the  choir  loft  and  found  him  waiting  for 
her  at  the  side  entrance,  she  was  glad.  She  held 
out  her  hand. 

"Rosalie  did  not  know  you  either,"  she  said. 
"I  asked  her.  Will  you  come  and  meet  father?" 

"Sorry,  but  not  to-day.  It  would  spoil  the  mys- 
tery. Come  along  with  me,  Little  Seeker  After 
Thrills,  I  want  to  walk  home  with  you.  I  go  your 
very  way." 

"I  usually  stay  and  shake  hands  with  the  mem- 
bers, but  it  will  be  fun  to  slip  away  for  once. 
Then  they  will  be  gladder  to  see  me  to-night." 

So  they  hurried  away,  and  Doris  noticed  that 
while  many  nodded  to  her,  no  one  had  a  word  of 
familiar  friendliness  for  him — so  she  knew  he 
was  a  stranger  to  all.  It  seemed  odd  that  he  could 
remain  unknown  in  such  a  little  town — he  must 
live  very  quietly  and  to  himself.  He  could  not  be 
72 


THE  BLESSING 

a  teacher,  she  was  sure  of  that,  for  teachers,  like 
"we  preachers,"  are  honor  bound  to  make  friends. 

"Has  the  butterfly  of  the  fold  been  in  any  new 
mischief  since  the  dance?" 

"Call  it  a  party.  We  preachers  do  not  go  to 
dances.  No,  indeed,  she  hasn't.  Didn't  you  no- 
tice how  sensible  she  looked  this  morning?  She 
is  really  very  good,  if  she  only  takes  time  to  think. 
She  decided  of  her  own  accord  and  free  will  not 
to  dance  any  more  at  all." 

"Then  since  it  was  her  own  free  will,  I  suppose 
you  feel  it  was  predestined,  don't  you?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Doris  politely,  for  she  never 
could  keep  that  free-will-predestination  puzzle 
quite  straight  in  her  mind — though  she  was  very 
sure  father  was  right  about  it. 

"And  what  have  you  been  doing  since  that 
night?" 

"Washing,  and  ironing,  and  cooking,  and  help- 
ing the  girls  with  their  lessons,  and  scolding 
father,  and  patching.  What  have  you  been  doj- 
ing?" 

73 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"I  ?  Oh,  I  have  been  haunting." 

"You  have  been — what  ?  Now  you  are  teasing 
again.  I  never  knew  any  one  as  grown  up  as  you 
who  teased  so  much.  Do  you  live  in  this  part  of 
town?" 

"You  know  we  haunts  just  live  around  in  the 
air,  and  do  our  ghosting  when  the  ghosting's 
good." 

"Oh,  let's  talk  sense.  I  expected  to  see  you  be- 
fore this." 

"I  have  seen  you  frequently." 

"You  have!  I  haven't  seen  you  once,  and  I 
have  been  looking  for  you." 

"One  morning  I  saw  you  digging  potatoes  in 
the  garden  of  the  manse.  And  your  father  stuck 
his  head  out  the  window  and  scolded  you." 

"He  doesn't  approve  of  my  digging  potatoes, 
but  he  is  so  busy  all  the  time  he  forgets  and  so  if 
I  wake  up  early  enough  I  sneak  out  and  do  it  to 
get  ahead  of  him." 

"And  one  morning  I  saw  you  flying  down  the 
middle  of  the  road  in  a  kimono,  yelling  at  the 
milk  man." 


THE  BLESSING 

"We  were  going  to  have  company  for  hraeh- 
eon,  and  I  forgot  to  leave  a  message  in  the  bottle 
that  I  wanted  cream,"  explained  Doris,  flushing. 

"And  one  morning,  very  early,  I  saw  you  run 
out-of-doors  in  a  shower,  barefooted,  and  your 
hair  hanging,  and  you  wore  your  father's  old  coat 
and  hat,  I  think,  and  you  were  gobbling  table- 
cloths off  the  line." 

"They  did  not  dry,  and  I  left  them  on  the  line 
over  night.  But  the  shower  came  up,  and  I  had 
to  rush  after  them." 

"And  one  morning — " 

"Don't  you  ever  sleep  ?  How  does  it  come  that 
you  always  see  me  some  ghastly  hour  in  the 
morning?  Why  don't  you  appear  about  three  in 
the  afternoon,  when  I  am  nicely  brushed  and 
have  on  a  fresh  dress,  and  look  like  a  preacher?" 

"Morning  is  my  own  particular  time  of  day. 
So  beware  how  you  venture  out,  for  you  can't 
escape  my  eyes." 

"You  must  be  a  milk  man." 

He  only  laughed.  "Now  tell  me  the  truth,  have 
you  thought  of  me  once  since  the  da — party?" 

75 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Yes,  not  being  a  regular  sphinx,  I  have.  I 
have  thought  of  you  very  often — you  are  the 
funniest  thing  I  ever  saw.  But  somehow  I  did 
not  expect  to  see  you  at  church." 

He  joined  her  laughter. 

"Come  in  and  have  dinner  with  us,"  she  said 
warmly.  "Please  do.  I  am  a  wonderful  cook. 
Zee  says  my  mashed  potatoes  taste  almost  ex- 
actly like — plum  pudding.  Would  you  consider 
that  a  compliment?" 

"By  all  means.  But  I  can  not  come  for  dinner 
to-day.  We  wizards  do  not  eat,  you  know.  Be 
kind  now,  and  get  into  more  morning  difficulties 
so  I  may  laugh  at  you,  will  you  ?" 

Doris  walked  into  the  manse  with  a  very 
thoughtful  air. 

"I  have  always  told  Rosalie  it  was  silly  to  be 
constantly  finding  mystery  in  every  little  thing — 
but  I  see  now  that  mystery  is  more  fun  than  any- 
thing else.  The  silly  old  thing — why  he  must  be 
nearly  as  old  as  father.  But  how  he  does  laugh! 
He  isn't  a  minister,  that's  certain.  And  he  isn't  a 
doctor,  for  everybody  knows  doctors,  besides 

76 


THE  BLESSING 

they  always  talk  shop.  And  he  doesn't  look  like 
a  worker — I  mean  a  hard  worker —  Isn't  it  ri- 
diculous? What  do  I  care  who  he  is — but  it  is 
lots  of  fun." 

As  they  sat  at  dinner,  Rosalie  said  suddenly, 
"Oh,  father,  you  must  scold  the  General.  She  is 
getting  very  worldly.  She  was  flirting  with  a 
stranger  in  the  congregation.  She  picked  out  a 
handsome  man,  and  kept  looking  at  him,  and  he 
smiled  at  her,  and  she  asked  if  I  knew  him  right 
in  the  middle  of  the  second  point." 

"Could  you  know  him  in  the  second  point  if 
you  didn't  know  him  anywhere  else?"  demanded 
Zee. 

"There  wasn't  a  handsome  man  in  church  ex- 
cept father,"  declared  Treasure. 

"General,  I  am  astonished,"  said  their  fathef 
with  smiling  eyes  and  solemn  face. 

"Don't  you  believe  her.  He  wasn't  a  stranger 
in  the  first  place,  and  in  the  second  I  only  looked 
at  him  once — or  twice,"  she  finished  feebly. 

"Oh,  what  a  story.  He  was,  too,  a  stranger. 
Didn't  you  ask  if  I  knew  him?" 

77 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"I  can't  remember  his  name.  But  I  met  him  at 
the  Country  Club  da — party.  I  talked  to  him 
ttiere  quite  a  lot,  and — " 

"Oh,  you  dangerous  girl  I  You  know,  father, 
these  quiet  modest  ones — look  out !  They  always 
make  trouble.  No  wonder  you  had  such  a  glori- 
ous time — flirting  with  a  stranger." 

"Rosalie,"  said  Doris  with  intense  dignity.  "I 
<3id  not  flirt.  I  just  talked,  and  we  talk  to  every- 
body, don't  we — we  preachers?" 

"But  who  is  he?" 

This,  it  seemed,  only  Providence  could  telL 

"Why  didn't  you  ask  him?" 

Doris  hedged  quickly.  It  was  all  very  well  to 
play  mystery  with  that  Aggravating  Thing,  but 
she  had  a  strong  feeling  it  would  sound  ridicu- 
lous to  the  family,  and  they  were  such  laughers. 

The  day  of  rest,  truly — but  always  a  stormy 
one  for  families  of  parsonage  and  manse. 

They  had  not  finished  dinner  when  the  super- 
intendent of  the  Sunday-school  called  Mr.  Art- 
jman  to  the  phone. 

78 


THE  BLESSING 

"Miss  Mtmsing  says  she  will  not  keep  her  class 
any  longer,"  he  protested  peevishly.  "I  want  you 
to  talk  to  her.  Why,  she  is  one  of  our  very  best 
teachers,  young  and  lively,  and  her  girls  adore 
her.  She  says  she  is  not  capable,  or  some  such 
nonsense — bright  clever  girl  like  that.  You  talk 
to  her,  will  you?  She  promised  to  see  you  this 
afternoon." 

Mr.  Artman  shook  his  head  despairingly  as  he 
returned  to  the  table. 

"You  women,"  he  said.  "Yeu  don't  know  how 
upsetting  you  are.  I  would  have  sworn  that  Miss 
Munsing  was  more  in  harmony  with  her  work 
than  any  teacher  in  the  school,  and  here  she 
throws  up  her  hands." 

"Do  you  mean  she  is  giving  up  the  class, 
father?"  asked  Treasure  breathlessly. 

"Just  that.  Says  she  is  not  capable,  or  some- 
thing." 

"Why,  Treasure,  isn't  she  your  teacher?  And 
you  all  love  her,  don't  you?" 

"Hum,  yes,"  said  Treasure  thoughtfully. 
79 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"You  talk  her  into  it,  father.   It  would  break  up 
the  class  to  lose  her." 

"What  is  the  trouble,  anyhow?  Has  anything 
gone  wrong?  If  there  has  been  any  mix-up,  you 
ought  to  know  it." 

"The  girls  are  just  crazy  about  her,  and  we 
have  the  best  record  for  attendance  in  the  whole 
school.  I  suppose  she  is  giving  up  the  class  on 
account  of  me." 

"On  account  of  you!" 

This  was  unanimously  exclamatory.  Rosalie 
was  always  problematic,  and  Zee  was  a  living 
fount  of  mischief,  even  Doris  was  given  to  moods 
and  fancies.  But  Treasure  was  the  serene  untar- 
nished blessing  of  the  family,  always  gentle,  al- 
ways friendly,  tranquil  and  undisturbed.  Could 
Treasure,  the  sweet,  cause  agony  to  any  young 
shepherdess  of  the  Sunday-school  flock  ?  The  ex- 
clamation was  followed  by  silence,  long  and  pro- 
found. 

"D — on't  you  like  her?"  asked  Doris  at  last,  in 
a  weak  voice. 

"I  love  her  with  all  my  heart." 
80 


THE  BLESSING 

"Do  you  cut  up  in  Sunday-school,  Treasure?" 
asked  Zee.  "I  am  surprised.  Miss  Conroy  has  to 
shake  her  head  at  me  sometimes — but  I  certainly 
am  ashamed  of  you.  I — I  didn't  think  it." 

"Of  course  I  do  not  cut  up  in  Sunday-school. 
I  am  surprised  you  would  even  mention  such  a 
thing." 

"Well,  go  on,  Treasure,  and  tell  us,"  said  Rosa- 
lie impatiently.  "You  are  the  last  person  in  the 
world  one  would  suspect  of  disrupting  a  religious 
organization." 

"Yes,  go  on  and  tell  it,  pet,"  said  her  father 
gently. 

"And  talk  fast,  Treasure.  You  are  so  poky. 
I  could  tell  six  volumes  while  you  get  into  the 
introduction." 

"There  isn't  any  introduction  to  it,"  said 
Treasure  in  her  gentle  voice.  "You  know,  father, 
when  you  go  over  the  lesson  with  us  on  Saturday 
night,  you  bring  out  a  lot  of  good  points  that 
Miss  Munsing  does  not  think  of." 

"Yes." 

"Of  course,  it  would  not  be  right  for  me  to 
81 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

speak  up  and  tell  things  she  does  not  know — it 
would  sound  smarty — as  if  I  were  trying  to  show 
off.  So  I  just  ask  questions,  and  sometimes  she 
does  not  know  the  answers.  Then  the  whole  class 
gets  into  a  discussion,  and  then  I  say,  'Maybe  it 
is  this  way,'  and  I  tell  what  you  have  said,  and 
she  says,  'Yes,  that  is  it,  of  course.'  And  some- 
times I  think  of  questions  that  nobody  has  ex- 
plained, and  I  ask — and  she  can't  answer.  This 
morning  she  got  rather  red,  and  looked  nervous. 
But  she  is  a  dear  thing,  and  I  don't  expect  her  to 
know  as  much  as  a  preacher,  of  course.  And  I 
hope  you  will  make  her  keep  the  class,  for  we 
could  never  get  another  teacher  like  her.  I  am 
truly  sorry,  father,  and  I  will  promise  never  to 
ask  another  question." 

Doris  flushed  suddenly.  "But — she  ought  to 
be  free  to  ask  questions,  father.  Miss  Munsing 
should  study  the  lessons  more,  and  find  the  an- 
swers." 

"I  suppose  it  is  not  just  pleasant  for  a  teacher 
to  have  her  scholars  wiser  than  she,"  said  their 
father  slowly.  "I  can  see  how  she  feels  about  it." 
82 


THE  BLESSING 

"But  she  ought  to  study  more,"  insisted  Doris. 

"I  shall  never  ask  anything  else,"  declared 
Treasure.  "We  can't  give  up  Miss  Munsing.  I 
know  the  rest  would  rather  have  her  than  some 
one  else  who  could  answer  the  whole  Bible.  I 
think  I  prefer  her  myself." 

"Finish  your  dinner  now,  girls;  I  shall  try  to 
think  of  some  way  to  manage,"  said  Mr.  Artman 
quietly. 

When  Miss  Munsing  came  to  the  door  Doris 
greeted  her  cordially.  "Father  is  waiting  for  you 
in  the  study.  Mr.  Andrews  telephoned  that  you 
were  coming." 

"I  suppose  you  think  I  am  just  terrible  to  go 
back  on  my  job,"  said  Miss  Munsing,  lifting 
troubled  eyes  to  Doris'  face. 

"I  never  think  anybody  is  terrible,"  said  Doris, 
^aughing.  "I  am  too  well  acquainted  with  my 
own  self  to  sit  in  judgment  on  anybody  else. 
Treasure  says  the  girls  will  never  give  you  up. 
Leave  it  to  father.  He  will  fix  you  up." 

So  Miss  Munsing  went  up-stairs,  and  Doris 
and  the  others  waited  impatiently  until  the  front 
83 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

door  closed  behind  her  when  the  interview  was 
over.  Then  they  trooped  eagerly  into  the  hall, 
waylaying  their  father  on  the  stairs. 

"Did  you  persuade  her?" 

"Was  I  the  trouble?"  queried  Treasure. 

"Yes,  you  were  the  trouble  sure  enough,"  said 
Mr.  Artman,  pinching  her  cheek  gaily.  "She  felt 
the  class  should  have  a  teacher  who  knew — and 
she  said  frankly  that  she  did  not  know.  She  had 
thought  it  quite  a  simple  matter  to  teach  a  class 
of  young  girls,  using  pretty  stories  to  illustrate 
plain  points — but  she  said  our  gentle  little  Treas- 
ure hurt  her  conscience  to  the  point  of  insomnia," 

"Did  you  tell  her  I  promised — " 

"Yes,  but  Miss  Munsing  is  no  quitter.  She 
would  not  hear  of  such  a  thing.  She  said  it  would 
be  bad  for  you,  and  bad  for  the  rest,  and  worst 
of  all  for  her.  She  would  not  even  discuss  it." 

"What  did  you  do,  father?  Of  course  you 
thought  of  something." 

"I  suggested  what  we  have  been  trying  to  ar- 
range for  the  last  year — a  teachers'  study  class. 
We  have  voted  on  it  a  dozen  times,  but  always 

84 


THE  BLESSING 

there  was  an  overwhelming  majority  against  it, 
because  their  evenings  were  so  full  of  other 
things.  And  I — although  there  were  a  few  who 
wanted  it — I  guess  I  was  a  quitter  myself.  I  said 
if  the  teachers  did  not  want  or  need  it,  I  had  no 
time  to  waste  on  it." 

"No  one  could  expect  you  to  give  up  a  whole 
evening  for  people  who  were  not  interested," 
cried  Doris  loyally. 

"Miss  Munsing  and  I  picked  out  Tuesday 
night,  and  she  and  I  are  going  to  have  a  Teach- 
ers' Study  Class.  The  others  will  be  invited  and 
urged  to  come.  But  Miss  Munsing  will  be  here, 
and  I  will  be  here — and  we  are  going  to  have 
that  class  if  nobody  else  ever  does  show  up.  It 
was  not  your  fault,  Treasure,  and  it  was  not  Miss 
Munsing's  fault,  for  she  did  her  best.  It  was 
really  I  to  blame,  for  I  should  have  counted  the 
evening  well  spent  if  it  helped  even  one  teacher 
in  her  work.  Much  obliged,  Treasure." 

Then  he  went  up-stairs. 

"What  in  the  world  did  he  mean  by  'Much 
obliged'?"  puzzled  Treasure.  "It  was  my  fault, 
85 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

too,  for  now  it  means  another  evening  of  hard 
work  for  him,  and  his  evenings  were  so  busy 
anyhow.  And  then  he  says  'Much  obliged.' 
Preachers  are  funny,  even  father." 

Sunday  afternoon  in  the  manse  was  supposed 
to  be  comfortably  quiet — not  prosy.  And  for  the 
first  hour  after  the  dinner  work  was  finished 
things  went  smoothly  indeed.  The  girls  read  their 
Sunday-school  papers.  Then  Treasure  and  Zee 
had  a  game  of  Bible  Prophets — enlivening  it  by 
betting  pennies  on  the  outcome — "Not  gambling 
at  all,"  insisted  Zee.  "Because  the  pennies  go  into 
the  mission  box  on  the  kitchen  shelf,  no  matter 
who  wins.  The  only  difference  is,  if  you  win, 
you  get  the  credit  on  the  Lord's  account-book, 
and  if  I  win,  I  get  it." 

As  long  as  Doris  did  not  find  out  why  that 
afternoon  game  of  Prophets  was  one  of  such  in- 
tense and  absorbing  interest  to  the  lively  girls, 
all  went  well  enough. 

The  Sabbath  never  failed  to  bring  a  problerri 
for  Rosalie. 

"Oh,  General,"  she  cried,  dancing  away  from 
86 


THE  BLESSING 

the  telephone.  "Our  little  crowd  is  going  for  a 
long  auto  ride  out  to  Miriam's  for  supper — a 
nice  Sunday  supper  of  bread  and  jelly  and  milk 
and  pie — and  may  I  go,  darling  General  ?" 

"But  Christian  Endeavor — " 

"Oh,  Bud  promised  faithfully  to  bring  me 
back  in  time  for  it.  The  others  are  going  to  spend 
the  evening  and  sing,  and  roast  marshmallows, 
but  out  of  deference  to  us  preachers  he  promised 
to  have  me  home  by  seven." 

"Ask  father,"  countered  Doris. 

"Oh,  General  dearest,  you  know  father  ought 
not  to  be  bothered  on  Sunday  afternoon.  It 
wouldn't  be  right." 

"Rosalie,  don't  ask  me.  I  want  you  to  do 
whatever  you  want  to,  but —  How  many  are 
going?" 

"Twelve,  I  suppose.  Three  cars  full.  Bud  is 
going  to  take  me  in  his  brother's  runabout." 

"Twelve.  Then  it  is  a  regular  party." 

"Oh,  not  really,  dearest.  It  will  take  an  hour 
to  get  there,  and  then  it  will  be  nearly  supper- 
time,  and  we  will  have  to  come  right  straight 

87 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

home  afterward.  You  know  Miriam's  people  are 
terribly  religious — not  like  us  preachers,  of 
course,  but  very  particular.  One  time  they  were 
dancing  on  Saturday  night,  and  they  sent  us 
right  home  at  midnight — they  said  there  should 
be  no  dancing  in  their  house  on  Sunday.  I  was 
there,  but  I  did  not  dance."  Rosalie  laughed  a 
little.  "So  the  next  Saturday  night  when  we 
were  there,  Miriam's  Aunt  Gertrude  turned  the 
clock  back  an  hour,  to  give  us  a  little  more  time." 

"There  would  not  be  any  dancing  then,  that  is 
one  thing,"  said  Doris  thoughtfully. 

"Well,"  admitted  Rosalie  honestly  but  reluc- 
tantly, "Miriam's  parents  are  out  of  town,  and 
Aunt  Gertrude  is  the  chaperon  to-day." 

Doris  looked  at  her  in  exasperation.  "You  bad 
girl,  you  fooled  me  on  purpose.  Run  up  and  ask 
father,  dear,  won't  you  ?  It  will  only  take  a  min- 
ute, and  he  won't  mind.  I  can't  settle  it  for  you." 

"Oh,  Doris,  it  would  be  mean,"  protested  Rosa- 
lie conscientiously. 

"Very  well,  then,  Miss  Rosalie,  decide  for 
yourself.  I  think  you  get  along  better  on  your 

88 


THE  BLESSING 

own  responsibility  anyhow.    Puzzle  it  out  for; 
yourself,  go  or  not,  just  as  you  think  best." 

"Then  I  shall  go,"  said  Rosalie  positively,  and 
she  went  into  the  hall  for  her  hat.  "You  think  it 
is  quite  all  right  for  me  to  go  then,  Doris  ?" 

"I  do  not  think  one  single  thing  about  it." 

"But  you  will  not  object  if  I  go?" 

"I  shall  not  even  mention  it." 

"Everybody  else  goes,  and  they  are  just  aS 
good  as  we  are — better  than  Zee  and  I." 

"Perhaps." 

"Oh,  you  bad  General,  you  make  me  so  cross," 
cried  Rosalie,  tossing  her  hat  to  the  floor.  "Why 
didn't  you  just  say  I  couldn't  go — I  never  dis- 
obey you,  do  I  ?  Or  why  didn't  you  say  I  could 
go,  then  if  my  conscience  hurt  me  I  could  say  if 
was  your  fault.  Now  you  have  spoiled  the  whole 
thing!" 

Rosalie  ran  to  the  telephone  and  called  a  num- 
ber in  a  voice  unruffled  and  sweet. 

"I  can  not  go,  Bud.   It  is  really  quite  a  party, 
you  know,  and  Sunday  is  the  Sabbath  for  us 
preachers.  It  was  just  dear  of  you  to  bother  witH 
89 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

me — I  should  think  you  must  be  tired  of  trying 
to  be  nice  to  a  cranky  old  preachy  crowd." 

Then  she  listened  a  moment  while  he  voiced 
fervent  denials. 

"Oh,  that  is  nice  of  you,  Bud,  and  I  know  I 
should  have  loved  it,  but  you  see  how  it  is,  don't 
you?" 

A  moment  later  she  gave  a  gleeful  little  cry, 
"Oh,  truly,  Bud,  would  you  enjoy  that?  I  am 
sure  it  will  be  all  right — wait  a  minute,  till  I  ask 
Doris.  Oh,  Doris,  he  says  he  does  not  care  to  go, 
and  his  brother  has  given  him  the  runabout  for 
the  rest  of  the  day,  and  he  wants  me  to  go  for  a 
quiet  little  drive  with  him,  and —  Is  that  all 
right  ?  Oh,  you  darling  General !" 

"Of  course  it  is  all  right,  and  ask  him  to  come 
to  supper  here,  Rosalie,  and  go  to  Endeavor 
with  us." 

So  Rosalie  gurgled  rapturously  into  the  trans- 
mitter and  received  a  hearty  acceptance,  and  then 
flung  her  arms  around  her  smiling  sister. 

"Oh,  General,  I  am  so  glad  we  decided  it  that 
•way.  I  know  they  would  dance — a  little — I  would 

90 


THE  BLESSING 

not,  of  course — but  I  do  love  to  drive,  and  I 
don't  get  a  chance  very  often,  and  Bud  is  always 
so  good  to  me.  Will  you  have  something  a  little 
bit  kind  of  extra  nice  for  supper?"  And  Rosalie 
danced  off  up  the  stairs,  singing  merrily. 

Doris  smiled  and  sighed  in  relief.  "That  set- 
tles Rosalie  for  this  afternoon.  The  other  girls 
will  be  up  and  going  in  a  minute,  I  suppose,  the 
game  must  be  nearly  over.  But  it  is  a  whole  lot 
to  have  Rosalie  fixed." 

At  that  moment  Treasure  picked  up  the  cards 
and  began  putting  them  into  the  box,  and  Zee 
walked  slowly  but  proudly  to  the  kitchen.  A 
second  later  Doris  heard  the  tinkling  of  pennies, 
and  Zee  came  back  into  the  room. 

"What  were  you  doing,  Babe?" 

"Putting  some  pennies  in  the  mission  box,'* 
came  the  even  answer. 

"What  shall  we  do  now,  Doris?  We  don't 
;want  to  play  any  more." 

"Haven't  you  something  to  read?" 

"We've  read  everything  in  the  house  a  dozen 
times.  May  we  go  over  to  Grahams'  ?" 

91 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Oh,  not  to-day,  dear,  they  are  so  noisy.  Wait 
until  to-morrow." 

"May  we  make  some  candy,  Doris?  And  pop 
corn?" 

"Oh,  Zee,  not  on  Sunday.  Why  don't  you  take 
a  walk?" 

"Too  hot,"  objected  Treasure.  "Let's  go  and 
make  father  tell  us  a  story." 

"You  wouldn't  bother  him  to-day,  surely.  He 
has  to  go  to  Waltons'  at  three  for  the  wedding." 

"Why  can't  we  go  to  the  wedding  with  him? 
iWe  are  very  good  at  weddings." 

"Not  this  time,  dear.  We  weren't  invited.  It 
is  just  a  quiet  wedding  on  the  rush — they  start 
east  this  afternoon,  you  know." 

"I  don't  believe  in  weddings  on  the  rush — they 
ought  to  take  their  time  and  have  old  shoes  and 
rice  and  refreshments,"  insisted  Zee  stubbornly. 

"What  shall  we  do  then,  Doris  ?  You  ought  to 
think  of  something." 

Doris  racked  her  brain.  She  had  to  rack  her 
brain  every  Sunday  afternoon,  but  somehow  she 
could  not  keep  a  supply  of  ideas  in  storage. 

92 


THE  BLESSING 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  the  meadow  and  pick 
some  goldenrod  ?"  she  suggested  finally.  "Bud  is 
coming  to  tea  with  Rosalie,  and  think  how  it  will 
please  her." 

Treasure  and  Zee  looked  at  each  other,  and  as 
neither  could  think  of  a  plausible  objection,  they 
acted  upon  the  plan. 

When  they  were  gone,  Doris  got  up,  luxuri- 
ously, and  lifted  her  arms  high  above  her  head. 

"Oh,  day  of  rest,"  she  breathed  fervently,  and 
•wandered  comfortably  through  the  house  and  into 
the  yard.  Sunday  was  a  blissful  day,  after  all. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  she  arranged  the  table 
attractively  for  tea,  and  made  a  pile  of  dainty 
sandwiches.  And  it  was  in  the  midst  of  this  oc- 
cupation that  she  was  interrupted  by  the  jingling 
of  the  telephone. 

"Is  this  Miss  Artman?  Miss  Doris — >  Do  you 
recognize  my  voice?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Wizard,  I  wish  I  didn't  Then  you 
Would  have  to  tell  me." 

He  laughed  at  that,  and  his  laugh  was  as  pleas- 
antly aggravating  by  telephone  as  in  person. 
93 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"However  did  you  come  to  call  me  up?"  she 
asked. 

"Sad  news,  my  friend,  sad  news.  Two  young 
girls  claiming  to  belong  to  you  are  under  arrest 
out  here  on  a  charge  of  trespassing." 

Doris  trembled  so  she  nearly  dropped  the  re- 
ceiver. 

"Arrest?"  she  faltered. 

"Well,  practically.  You  see  there  is  a  big  sign 
up  which  says,  'No  trespassing/  and  along  came 
two  young  girls  walking  beside  the  creek,  picking 
flowers,  and  shooing  birds,  and  chasing  rabbits, 
as  natural  as  life.  Out  jumps  a  wild  and  angry 
game-keeper — so-called.  He  says,  'Didn't  you  see 
that  sign,  "No  Trespassing"  ?'  The  little  dark  one 
began  to  cry,  but  the  other  one  said,  'We  are  not 
trespassing,  we  are  picking  flowers/  'They  are 
my  personal  flowers/  said  the  game-keeper. 
'Nothing  of  the  kind,  they  are  God's,  you  didn't 
even  plant  them,  for  they  are  wild/  Then  I  ar- 
rive, like  mercury  on  the  wings  of  the  wind,  and 
the  dark  one  was  still  weeping — " 

"Zee  doesn't  cry,"  wailed  Doris. 
94 


THE  BLESSING 

"She  does  cry.  She  not  only  cries,  she  bellows. 
But  the  slender,  white  one  insisted  they  were 
not  trespassing  because  they  are  preachers  and 
preachers  do  not  trespass.  What  shall  I  do  with 
them?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  faltered  Doris.  "Father  is 
at  a  wedding,  and —  Who  is  the  cross  old  bear, 
anyhow  ?" 

"Search  me,"  he  said  blithely.  "I  think  maybe 
I  can  bribe  him  off.  At  present  the  girls  are  seated 
comfortably  on  a  fallen  tree  eating  apples,  the 
baby  has  quit  bellowing,  and  the  game-keeper  is 
gathering  some  late  roses  for  them.  Holding 
them  in  sweet  confinement  until  you  guarantee 
that  they  are  yours.  I  guess  I  can  fix  it  up  with 
the  old  man.  Don't  worry  then,  I  shall  give  it 
my  personal  attention,  and  see  that  your  erring 
and  trespassing — for  they  were  trespassing  be- 
yond a  doubt,  manse  to  the  contrary  notwith- 
standing— sisters  are  restored  to  the  shelter  of 
the  fold.  Don't  worry.  Aren't  you  glad  you  have 
a  mysterious  wizard  flitting  about  to  shield  your 
— your — your — I  can  not  think  of  a  word  to  do 
95 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

them  justice — •  Anyhow,  to  keep  your  sanctified 
but  erring  family  out  of  jail?" 

Then  he  hung  up  the  receiver  before  Doris 
could  even  thank  him. 

How  agonizingly  she  waited — and  how  calmly 
and  confidently  they  came  at  last — the  calloused 
little  wretches — Zee  bearing  a  bountiful  armful 
of  goldenrod  and  crimson  roses,  and  Treasure 
laden  with  luscious  fruit. 

"Well,  for  goodness'  sake,"  exclaimed  Zee 
when  she  saw  Doris,  white  and  trembling.  "Did 
you  think  they  could  really  arrest  us — preachers? 
Impossible!  Of  course  the  old  reprobate — I  use 
it  scripturally,  so  don't  get  excited — of  course  he 
scared  me  right  at  first,  I  wept  a  little,  very  ef- 
fectively, and  Treasure  put  her  arm  around  me 
and  said  she  wouldn't  let  him  hurt  me.  He  was 
very  cross.  We  call  him  the  Corduroy  Crab,  for 
short — and  because  we  don't  know  anything  else 
to  call  him." 

"You  might  know  we  would  not  let  them  ar- 
rest us,  Doris,"  said  Treasure  gently.  "You 
should  not  have  worried." 

96 


THE  BLESSING 

*'Of  course,  he  was  simply  foaming  at  the 
mouth.  He  was  going  to  march  us  home  in  dis- 
grace, to  report  us.  But  Treasure  sat  right  down, 
and  said  we  would  come  and  report  ourselves, 
but  we  would  not  be  marched  through  town  in 
disgrace.  Treasure  came  out  like  a  brick;  I  was 
surprised  at  her." 

"What  were  you  doing  all  the  time,  Miss  Zee?" 

"Well,"  confessed  Zee  reluctantly,  "I  was  be- 
fiind  Treasure  most  of  the  time.  And  then  the 
other  fellow — I  wonder  who  in  the  world  he 
was?" 

"He  made  me  angrier  than  the  Crab  did;  he 
tEought  he  was  so  funny !" 

"He  was  going  along,  and  came  in  to  see  the 
excitement.  And  he  laughed  at  us — the  hateful 
thing.  And  when  we  said  we  belonged  to  the 
manse  he  laughed  more  than  ever.  He  was  not 
a  farmer,  I  am  sure — he  wore  a  silk  shirt,  did  you 
notice  that,  Treasure?  We  call  him  the  Curious 
Cat — Curious  because  he  was  so  funny,  and  Cat 
because  he  laughed.  He  gave  the  old  Crab  some 
money  and  said  he  would  assume  responsibility 
97 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

for  us,  and  he  told  us  to  wait  until  he  telephoned 
to  verify  us,  or  something,  and  he  asked  the  Crab 
to  pick  us  some  regular  flowers  to  atone  for  his 
irreverence  in  assaulting  a  manse,  as  it  were,  and 
the  Crab  really  was  pretty  decent  after  that. 
"When  the  Cat  went  to  telephone,  I  asked  who  he 
was,  and  the  Crab  rolled  up  his  eyes  and  said  he 
never  laid  eyes  on  him  before.  And  then  the  Cat 
came  back,  and  brought  us  home  in  his  car." 

"Where  was  it  ?"  asked  Doris  curiously. 

"It  was  in  the  hickory  grove,  this  side  of  the 
tumble-down  house — I  did  hear  that  some  one 
had  bought  the  place,  but  I  did  not  believe  it. 
Every  one  says  it  is  haunted.  But  of  course 
haunts  do  not  work  in  the  day-time,  and  the 
flowers  were  gorgeous.  We  got  quite  chummy 
with  the  Corduroy  Crab  before  we  left,  and  asked 
if  we  might  have  a  picnic  there  some  time,  and 
he  said  yes." 

"However  did  you  get  away  out  there,  any- 
how?" 

"Oh,  the  Maples  came  along  in  their  car  and 
asked  if  we  wanted  a  ride,  and  when  we  got  out 

98 


THE  BLESSING 

there  and  saw  how  fine  the  flowers  were  we  said 
we  would  get  a  ride  back  easy  enough." 

"Here  comes  father!" 

The  girls  raced  down  the  stone  walk  to  meet 
him,  and  Doris  returned  to  the  kitchen. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  such  a  thing  in  your  life?'* 
she  thought  to  herself.  "How  does  he  get  every 
place — and  how  does  he  know  everything —  Oh, 
I  think  I'll  take  a  walk  out  there  myself  some  of 
these  fine  days — maybe  I'll  get  arrested,  too!" 


CHAPTER  Y 

THE  WILL 

"TTpATHER,  are  you  studying,  or  are  you 
JL  plain  fidgeting?"  asked  Doris  suspiciously, 
pausing  in  the  act  of  dusting  the  pile  of  mam** 
script  on  her  father's  desk. 

"Just  plain  fidgeting,  I  am  afraid,"  he  ad- 
mitted. "I  am  nervous." 

"Nervous !" 

**I  believe  that  old  fellow  left  me  something  in 
his  will,"  came  the  sober  confession. 

"Davison?" 

"Davison." 

"But  why  should  he  leave  you  anything?" 

"Well,  for  that  matter,  why  shouldn't  he? 
Didn't  I  have  to  preach  his  funeral  sermon — • 
hardest  job  of  my  whole  ministry?*' 

"But  what  makes  you  think — " 

"Folsom  called  me  up  and  asked  me  to  be  a? 
100 


THE  WILL 

his  office  at  eleven  o'clock  for  the  reading  of  the 
will.  Folsom  is  his  lawyer." 

"Oh,  they  just  want  you  for  a  witness,  goosie." 

"You  don't  witness  wills  when  they  are  dead 
— I  mean,  you  witness  the  will  when  the  dead  per- 
son made  it — before  he  is  dead,  of  course." 

"Oh,  father,  I  couldn't  have  bungled  it  worse 
myself,"  she  cried  gleefully.  "But  if  he  left  you 
anything,  I  hope  it  was  money.  Maybe  he  left 
you  a  thousand  dollars.  Father,  if  he  did  leave 
you  a  thousand  dollars,  will  you  buy  me  a  pair  of 
two-tone  gray  shoes,  twelve  dollars?  Somehow 
the  height  of  my  ambition  seems  to  be  two-tone 
gray  shoes,  twelve  dollars." 

"Two-tone  gray  shoes !  Do  they  make  shoes  to 
music  now?" 

"Absolutely — and  very  expensive  music,  too — • 
an  orchestra  at  the  very  least.  A  thousand  dol- 
lars!" 

"Don't  set  your  heart  on  it.  I  don't  think  he 
had  any  money." 

"What  did  he  have?" 

"A  little  farm,  and  some  chickens,  and  some 
101 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

books  that  were  handed  down  to  him  from  some- 
body else,  and  a  pianola  that  he  got  by  a  mort- 
gage, and  a  gold-headed  cane — " 

"That  is  it,  father,  of  course — the  gold-headed 
cane.  I  am  sure  of  it.  Of  all  things  in  the  world 
that  you  can't  use,  and  I  don't  want,  a  gold- 
headed  cane  comes  first.  So  that  is  probably  what 
you  will  get.  I  feel  it  in  my  prophetic  soul.  Cheer 
up,  dear,  I  believe  you  can  pawn  it." 

"Why,  General,  what  a  pessimist  you  are  to- 
day. Maybe  he  left  us  the  chickens." 

"No  such  luck,"  she  answered  gloomily. 
"Didn't  he  have  a  handsome  imported  Italian 
pipe?  Maybe  he  left  you  that.  Or  an  old  En- 
glish drinking  tankard — he  must  have  had  drink- 
ing tankards.  Or  a  set  of  hand-carved  poker 
chips —  He  would  chuckle  in  his  grave  if  he 
could  wish  something  like  that  on  you.  Don't 
talk  to  me  of  wills  any  more,  father.  No  wonder 
you  are  fidgety.  Run  along  now,  and  if  you  get 
a  gold-headed  cane  don't  you  bring  it  into  the 
manse.  And  if  you  get  a  sterling  beer  mug,  you 
give  it  to  the  heathens.  Now  scoot." 
102 


A  Jersey  cow — or  a  naughty  red  car ! 


THE  WILL 

Laughing,  her  father  scooted,  and  Doris  smiled 
after  him  tenderly. 

"It  would  be  nice  if  the  old  sinner  did  end  his 
bad  life  well  by  leaving  father  something  really 
decent.  And  goodness  knows  father  deserves  it. 
He  had  to  get  him  out  of  jail  twice,  and  pray  him 
through  delirium  tremens  four  times." 

Still  she  would  not  allow  her  hopes  to  rise  too 
buoyantly,  for  she  had  learned  from  a  life  of 
well-mixed  joy  and  discomfort  not  to  expect  the 
very  greatest  and  grandest  of  all  good  things — » 
and  then  whatever  came  was  welcome,  because  it 
.was  more  than  she  expected. 

But  when  along  toward  noon  she  heard  the 
call  of  the  telephone,  she  leaped  excitedly  to  an- 
swer it. 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,  of  course  it  is.  What  did  you 
say?  What — did— you — say?  Do  it  again,  fa- 
ther, and  slowly."  And  then  she  repeated  after 
him  solemnly,  word  for  word,  "The  prize  Jersey 
cow,  or  the  red  auto  he  was  always  getting  ar- 
rested for  speeding.  And  take  your  choice. 
Mercy  me !  Good-by." 

103 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

Doris  hung  up  the  receiver  and  sat  down  on 
the  floor.  Of  all  things  in  the  world!  A  Jersey 
cow — or  a  naughty  red  carl  And  father  was  to 
take  his  choice. 

When  the  girls  came  clamoring  in  from  school 
Mr.  Artman  had  not  appeared,  so  Doris  served 
them  with  hands  that  trembled,  and  finally,  when 
she  saw  that  father  would  not  come  in  time  to 
break  his  own  good  news,  she  said : 

"Mr.  Davison  left  a  will  and  father  gets  a 
Jersey  cow  or  the  red  car — which  ?" 

There  was  no  more  dinner  after  that — for  the 
girls  all  began  talking  at  once — except  Treasure, 
yvho  looked  volumes,  but  never  had  an  opportu- 
nity to  break  into  the  conversation — and  how 
cross  they  were  at  father  for  not  coming  home 
to  share  the  excitement.  But  maybe  he  was  learn- 
ing to  drive  the  red  car,  or — 

"Milk  the  cow,"  faltered  Rosalie.  "You  don't 
suppose  father  would  let  them  talk  him  into  tak- 
ing the  silly  old  cow,  do  you  ?" 

"Absolutely  not,"  said  Doris  imperturbably. 
"Father  knows  better  than  to  decide  such  a  thing 

104 


THE  WILL 

by  himself.  He  will  come  straight  home — and  I 
choose  the  car." 

So  the  girls  reluctantly  went  off  to  school 
again. 

At  one  o'clock  a  neighbor  ran  in.  "Well,  what 
do  you  think  of  that?  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such 
a  thing?  Would  anybody  but  old  Davison  ever 
think  of  leaving  a  preacher  anything  in  his  will?" 

"Mr.  Davison  was  very  thoughtful  in  many 
ways,"  said  Doris  with  dignity. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so.  Well,  it  certainly  is  won- 
derful luck  for  you  folks.  It  is  a  good  cow,  one 
of  the  best  in  the  county.  Everybody  says  so. 
Worth  two  hundred  dollars,  and  only  three  years 
old.  And  think  of  the  nice  milk  and  cream  and 
butter  and — " 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  father  took  the  cow/' 
gasped  Doris. 

"Why,  I  don't  know — I  suppose  so — I  should 
think  he  would.  Whatever  would  your  poor 
father  do  with  that  devilish  little  red  car?  Of 
course  he  will  take  the  cow." 

"You  scared  me  for  a  minute.  I  thought  maybe 
105 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

father  had  a  mental  aberration  and  did  it!  No, 
he  will  not  take  the  cow — not  by  any  means.  He 
will  take  the  car,  and  take  it  just  as  fast  as  ever 
he  can,  and — and — and — " 

Of  course,  the  neighbor  lady  was  sure  dear 
Doris  was  quite  daft,  but  Doris  was  tranquilly 
confident.  Her  faith  in  her  father's  wisdom  re- 
mained unshaken — he  would  come  to  her,  and 
she  had  already  dhosen  the  car.  It  certainly  was 
a  General's  prerogative — choosing  things. 

At  four  o'clock  he  came,  smiling,  his  face 
flushed,  his  eyes  bright  and  boyish. 

"Most  fun  I've  had  in  ten  years,"  he  said, 
mopping  his  brow.  "I  think  if  the  parishioners 
knew  how  much  fun  it  is,  more  of  them  would 
die,  and  remember  me  in  their  wills." 

"You  mean—" 

"Never  mind  what  I  mean.  I  am  not  sure  I 
know  myself.  Well,  as  I  told  you,  Davison  says 
it  is  for  my  own  personal  use  and  pleasure,  mine 
and  my  family's — not  for  the  church  under  any 
consideration — either  the  cow  or  the  car.  Prob- 
ably, he  says,  in  his  outspoken  way,  I  shall  be  fool 
106 


THE  WILL 

enough  to  take  the  cow,  and  in  that  case  the  car 
is  to  go  to  his  great-grand-nephew  up  in  New 
London.  And  great-grand-nephew  greatly  pre- 
fers the  car,  so  he  took  me  out  to  show  me  the 
cow,  and  explain  what  a  bargain  she  is,  and  how 
easy  to  milk,  and  how  creamy  the  milk  is,  and 
he  figured  up  how  many  pounds  of  milk  and  gal- 
lons of —  No,  I  mean  it  the  other  way,  gallons 
of  milk  and  pounds  of  butter  I  will  get  per  year, 
at  so  much  per  gallon  and  per  pound,  and  that 
will  mean  a  clear  profit  of—.-" 

"Father,  you  poor  dear,  shall  I  call  a  doctor?'* 
"So,  after  seeing  the  cow,  and  she  is  a  beauty 
f — I  said,  'How  about  the  car?  Let's  give  her  the 
once-over,  too,  while  we  are  at  it.'  He  says  it 
isn't  much  of  a  car,  in  terrible  condition,  would 
take  a  hundred  dollars  to  put  it  in  shape,  and 
fairly  eats  gasoline — gas  going  up,  too.  And  he 
says  it  is  a  bad  car  to  handle,  quite  dangerous,  in 
fact,  has  a  habit  of  running  into  telephone  poles 
and  trains  and  things.  But  we  backed  her  out  of 
the  garage,  and  great-grand-nephew  and  FolsoiDf 
and  I  had  a  ride.  Which  do  you  want?" 
107 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Mercy,  father,  how  abrupt  you  are.  I  thought 
it  was  settled  long  ago.    We  want  the  car,  of 


course." 


"All  right,  my  dear,  all  right,  but  I  have  a 
Hunch  that  great-grand-nephew  will  not  be  par-* 
ticularly  pleased.  Lucky  he  lives  in  New  London 
instead  of  here — Congregationalist,  too,  that's 
good.  And  when  I  consider  that  I  got  Davison 
put  of  jail  twice  for  speeding  the  thing,  I  think 
after  all  it  is  my  just  deserts.  All  right,  call  Fol- 
som  up  and  telJ  him  we  take  the  car." 

Doris  ecstatically  did,  and  the  lawyer  said  he 
would  deliver  the  car  at  their  door  in  person  the 
next  morning  at  nine  o'clock. 

"Can't  you  make  it  eight?"  pleaded  Doris.  "I 
think  the  children  ought  to  be  here,  and  they  are 
in  school,  you  know." 

Very  obligingly  Mr.  Folsom  consented  to  the 
change  of  time,  and  the  entire  family  sat  up  until 
eleven  o'clock  that  night  figuring  out  how  to  make 
motor  bonnets  of  left-over  coats  and  planning 
yacation  motor  trips  for  ten  years  in  advance. 

^At  five-thirty  the  next  morning  Treasure  and 
108 


THE  WILL 

Zee  made  a  tour  of  the  house,  wakening  every 
member  of  the  family  in  no  idle  manner. 

"Going  to  sleep  all  day?"  Zee  demanded  in  a 
peevish  voice  when  she  had  shaken  Rosalie  four; 
times.  "Get  up,  so  you'll  be  ready  for  the  car.'* 

"Zee  Artman,  you  go  right  back  to  bed,  and 
let  me  sleep,"  protested  Rosalie.  "Do  I  have  to 
sit  up  all  night  just  because  the  car  is  coming, 
to-morrow  ?" 

"You  get  out,  or  we'll  pull  you  out.  Treasure 
and  I  are  all  dressed.  We're  not  going  to  have 
things  held  up  at  the  last  minute  because  some- 
body isn't  down  yet.  Are  you  going  to  get  up — »• 
Have  you  got  the  water,  Treasure?" 

In  the  face  of  such  persistence  the  others  were 
helpless,  so  they  rushed  down  and  had  a  feverish 
breakfast,  with  Zee  dashing  away  from  the  table 
every  three  minutes  to  see  if  the  car  had  come, 
and  at  seven-thirty  they  were  grouped  impatiently 
at  the  front  window. 

"Keep  behind  the  curtains,"  Rosalie  urged,  "or 
fie  will  think  we  never  had  a  car  before  in  our 
lives." 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"We  must  call  it  the  machine,"  said  Zee.  "Ma- 
chine sounds  so  unconcerned." 

"Motor,  you  little  goose,"  said  Rosalie.  "Ma- 
chine is  what  the  business  men  call  it.  The  high- 
brows say,  'The  motor  will  be  here  at  six.' ' 

"We  must  give  it  a  name,"  said  Treasure. 
"Let's  call  it  the  Shooting  Star." 

"Let's  call  it  the  Divine  Spark —  It  is  the  only 
<Iivine  thing  old  Davison  ever  did." 

"Girls,"  said  Doris  firmly,  "don't  you  ever  let 
me  hear  you  speak  disrespectfully  of  poor  Mr. 
Davison  again.  He  certainly  had  a  kind  and  gen- 
erous heart  and  he  must  have  sympathized  with 
dear  father,  walking  all  over  town  in  all  kinds 
of  weather,  and — " 

"Pretty  good  sort,  after  all,  wasn't  he,  Doris  ?" 
laughed  Mr.  Artman.  "One  post-mortem  virtue 
like  this  will  cover  a  lifetime  of  delirium  tremens, 
won't  it?" 

"Here  she  comes,"  shouted  Zee,  and  the  family 
forgot  its  ministerial  dignity  and  rushed  pell- 
mell  down  the  stone  walk. 

It  was  a  pretty  car,  giddy  and  gaudy  as  to 
110 


THE  WILL 

color,  which  fascinated  Zee,  with  a  softly  whir- 
ring motor  that  reminded  Treasure  of  a  happy 
little  kitten,  and  with  long  low  lines  that  Rosalie 
declared  were  very  smart  indeed. 

"Get  in,  folks,"  said  Mr.  Folsom  gaily,  "we 
must  give  her  a  trial  run." 

So  the  three  older  girls  stepped  loftily  into  the 
tonneau,  and  Zee  snuggled  up  between  her  father 
and  Mr.  Folsom  in  front — there  may  have  been 
bigger,  more  wonderful,  more  luxurious  cars — • 
but  the  Artmans  could  not  be  convinced  of  it, 
and  Mr.  Davison  improved  steadily  with  every 
turn  of  the  motor. 

Mr.  Folsom,  enjoying  their  passionate  de- 
light, volunteered  to  spend  the  morning  giving 
the  minister  his  first  lesson,  and  a  near  panic  en- 
sued. 

"Oh,  Doris!" 

"Do  we  have  to  go  to  school  ?" 

"Oh,  dear,  sweet,  darling  General,  it  never  hap- 
pened before  since  we  were  born." 

"What  do  you  think,  father?"  said  Doris 
slowly. 

Ill 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"You  are  the  General,"  came  the  quick  re- 
sponse. 

"Then,"  said  Doris,  in  a  clear  triumphant 
voice,  "step  on  it!  What  do  we  care  for  school, 
and  work,  and  mending,  and  dishes,  and —  Be- 
gin, Mr.  Folsom.  We'll  see  the  morning 
through." 

It  was  lovely  to  see  precious  old  father  take 
that  gay  young  interest  in  bolts  and  screws — how 
readily  his  laughter  sounded — how  deep  and 
pleased  his  voice  rang  out.  Poor,  dear  Mr.  Davi- 
son — well,  we  preachers  are  only  to  lead,  and  not 
to  judge,  and  Doris  was  very,  very  sure  the 
angels  in  Heaven  must  know  many  good  and 
tender  things  about  the  man  who  did  this  kind- 
ness to  her  father. 

Some  of  the  people  of  the  fold  thought  the 
family  had  mentally  run  amuck.  Whoever  heard 
of  an  impecunious  minister  taking  an  expensive 
auto  in  preference  to  a  money-making  cow?  It 
was  incomprehensible.  But  even  those  who  won- 
dered, smiled  with  loving  sympathy  when  the 
112 


THE  WILE 

family  bundled  joyously  into  the  motor  "just  to 
have  a  good  time  for  an  hour." 

"But  wherever  in  the  world  we  are  going  id 
scare  up  money  for  gas  is  more  than  I  can  figure 
out,"  said  Mr.  Artman,  looking  at  the  girls  with 
sober  eyes.  "We've  got  the  car — but  it  won't  run 
itself.  It  costs  twenty-five  cents  a  gallon,  and  we 
only  get  about  eighteen  miles  to  the  gallon — " 

"Don't  do  figures,  father,  it  makes  my  head 
ache,"  pleaded  Doris.  "We  must  concentrate. 
Where  is  the  money  for  gas?  Everybody  think 
now." 

After  a  painful  silence  Treasure  came  forward 
with  the  first  sacrifice.  "I  will  give  half  of  mjr; 
allowance — but  it  is  only  a  dollar." 

Zee  frowned  at  her.  "That's  a  poor  idea,"  she 
said.  "Now  I  have  to  live  up  to  your  precedent, 
and  give  half  of  mine.  That  is  another  dollar.5' 
And  then,  with  a  truly  herculean  effort  she  added, 
"/  nd,  Doris,  I  will  go  ahead  wearing  stogies  to 
school,  and  you  can  have  the  price  of  the  fine 
shoes  for  gas,  too." 

113 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"That  is  just  fine  for  a  starter,"  said 
"And  since  you  little  ones  have  set  the  example, 
I  know  I  can  cut  down  on  the  expense  of  cooking 
— we  must  use  less  butter,  and  less  sugar,  and 
other  rich  things.  I  am  sure  I  can  save  a  few 
dollars  every  month,  and  you  will  never  notice 
the  difference.  It  will  take  a  little  more  planning, 
and  a  little  more  work  preparing  the  food — but 
I  am  willing  to  do  that.  Put  me  down  for  at  least 
three  dollars." 

Rosalie  sighed.  "What  can  I  do?  I  have  my; 
winter  clothes  already,  and  my  allowance — I 
can't  give  it  up,  for  if  I  haven't  any  money  the 
other  girls  will  pay  my  share  of  things,  and  I 
can  not  sponge  on  my  friends,  you  know."  Then 
she  added  slowly,  "But  father  gave  me  the  money 
to  join  the  Golf  Club — and  I  only  wanted  to  join 
because  it  is  so  smart — I  get  plenty  of  exercise 
without  it.  It  is  five  dollars  to  join  and  two-fifty 
a  month.  That  goes  into  the  gas." 

"Rosalie,  that  is  lovely — and  so  sweet  and  un-» 
selfish.   Now  we  can  use  the  car  with  clear  con- 
sciences, and  we  will  enjoy  it  all  the  more  because 
114 


THE  WILL; 

•we  are  making  a  sacrifice  to  pay  for  our  pleas- 
ure." 

"How  can  I  help?"  asked  their  father  sud- 
denly. "I  should  like  to  follow  your  lead.  Is  there 
anything  I  can  give  up,  or  go  without?  How  do 
men  economize,  anyhow?  I  shave  and  shine  my- 
self already.  Cigars — I  never  use.  Theater  tick- 
ets— never  even  saw  them.  What  can  I  give  up  ?" 

"Oh,  father,  I  never  thought  of  that.  You  do 
not  have  any  money  for  yourself  at  all,  do  you? 
YOU  always  turn  it  right  over  to  me.  Are — we 
• — as  poor  as  that?" 

There  was  tragedy  in  the  young  voice,  and 
she  broke  over  the  words. 

"Why,  Doris,  I  did  not  mean  it  that  way.  I 
have  everything  I  want,  of  course.  Fortunately, 
a  minister's  clothes  do  not  go  out  of  style — and 
it  saves  me  trouble  and  worry  to  let  you  spend 
the  family  fund  instead  of  doing  it  myself." 

"Then  you  shall  be  treasurer  of  the  gasoline; 

money.   It  will  make  you  feel  like  a  millionaire; 

you  poor  old  soul."    She  ran  to  her  desk  and 

brought  out  the  box  of  household  funds.   "Here 

115 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

is  my  three  dollars —  And  don't  you  get  reckless 
and  spend  it  for  tires  and  rugs  and  things." 

Laughing  gaily,  the  other  girls  brought  out 
their  hoarded  dollars  and  thrust  them  into  his 
hands. 

"I  have  not  felt  so  affluent  for  lo,  these  many 
years,"  he  declared.  "Let's  go  out  for  a  spin  in 
the  motor,  shall  we?  And  we'd  better  run  by  the 
garage  and  fill  her  up — the  tank  is  nearly  empty." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    SERPENT 

MR.  ARTMAN  looked  up  from  his  mail, 
frowning  gently,  and  Doris,  always  quick 
to  note  his  changing  moods  even  in  the  midst  of 
directing  Treasure  about  the  proper  distance 
from  the  table  for  her  chair,  and  admonishing 
Zee  to  eat  her  oatmeal  from  the  side  of  her 
spoon,  was  prompt  to  voice  a  query. 

"Don't  frown,  father,  it  isn't  ministerial.  Has 
somebody  else  left  you  a  will?" 

"No  such  luck.  I  was  not  frowning  at  the  let- 
ter— I  have  a  headache." 

"Oh,  father,"  cried  Zee.  "It  is  because  the  girls 
make  such  a  racket.  Go  to  bed,  won't  you,  and  I 
myself  will  stand  on  guard  and  keep  peace  in  the 
family." 

"Zee's  spirit  is  willing  to  be  quiet,  but  her  voice 
and  her  heels  give  it  no  support,"  smiled  Rosalie, 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"It  is  not  the  noise.  I  like  to  hear  the  incessant 
chatter  and  chase  below  stairs  when  I  am  work- 
ing. This  fellow — " 

"Fellow,  father?'* 

"Minister,"  he  amended  quickly.  "He  is  a  min- 
ister, but  he  is  tired  of  pastoral  work  and  wants 
to  try  his  skill  in  evangelism,  and  insists  on  com- 
ing here  to  practise  on  us  during  his  vacation. 
But  we  aren't  ready  for  evangelistic  meetings — 
and  personally  I  should  prefer  another —  Any- 
how— "  he  frowned  gently  at  the  letter  again. 

"Tell  him  so,"  advised  Doris. 

"I  did.  But  he  says  he  is  coming  for  a  visit 
anyhow,  and  he  insists  it  is  a  direct  guidance  of 
Providence." 

"Direct  guidance  of  his  bank-account,  prob- 
ably," said  Rosalie.  "Don't  let  him  work  you, 
father." 

He  shook  his  head  at  her  reprovingly.  "If  it 
should  really  prove  a  guidance —  Anyhow,  as  he 
says,  he  is  coming  and  will  be  with  us  a  few  days 
to  think  it  over." 

"Then  I  can  not  go  to  the  country  to-morrow," 
118 


THE  SERPENT, 

said  Doris.  "Rosalie  is  no  fit  person  to  cook  din-i 
ner  for  a  visiting  minister." 

"I  am  sorry,  dear." 

"Yes,  of  course  you  are.  I  can  see  quite  plainly 
that  you  do  not  want  him  any  more  than  I  do. 
But  never  mind.  The  country  will  remain  for-> 
ever,  but — " 

"Some  visiting  ministers  do,  too,  if  they  get  a 
chance,"  chimed  Rosalie. 

"Rosalie!  I  dare  say  he  is  very  nice,  and  we 
shall  all  enjoy  him  immensely.  Shan't  we, 
father?" 

"I  hope  so — I  think  so.  He  is — I  do  not  know; 
him  very  well." 

"Evidently  he  did  not  make  a  special  hit  with 
you,"  said  Zee  shrewdly. 

"Oh,  girls,  how  prying  you  are.  He  is  very 
active  and  enthusiastic.  That  I  was  not  personally 
drawn  to  him  is  rather  my  fault  than  his,  no 
doubt." 

"We  are  going  to  be  very  nice  to  him,"  said 
Doris  i  "And  Rosalie  can  take  him  in  hand,  so  he 
won't  bother  you  every  minute." 
119 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Oh,  he  is  married.  And  I  must  say  his  wife 
is  nice  enough  to  make  up  for — " 

"Father!" 

"Excuse  me,  dear,  I  mean  his  wife  is — very 
nice  indeed." 

So  the  visiting  minister  came,  the  Reverend 
Andrew  Boltman,  a  nervous  energetic  man  with 
dark  eyes,  and  hair  just  tinged  with  gray,  and 
he  settled  down  for  a  visit  in  the  manse,  trying, 
meanwhile,  to  effect  arrangements  for  the  serv- 
ices, which  Mr.  Artman  still  insisted  were  not 
desirable  at  the  time. 

On  the  second  day  of  his  visit,  when  Mr.  Art- 
man announced  his  intention  of  going  to  a  lec- 
ture at  the  college,  Mr.  Boltman  said  he  preferred 
to  stay  quietly  at  home  and  read  if  he  might  be 
excused,  and  his  host  went  away  alone,  seeming 
almost  relieved  to  be  free  to  follow  his  own  de- 
sires for  the  afternoon.  Doris  went  serenely 
about  her  housework,  and  Mr.  Boltman  picked 
out  a  comfortable  corner  in  the  living-room  with 
his  book. 

But  late  in  the  afternoon,  when  her  father  re- 
120 


THE  SERPENT 

turned,  he  found  Doris  alone  at  the  window,  im- 
patiently tapping  her  foot  on  the  floor. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Boltman?" 

"Gone  down-town.  Something  is  wrong  with 
Rosalie.  She  is  up-stairs,  crying.  It  must  be 
pretty  bad,  for  she  would  not  tell  me  about  it." 

So  Mr.  Artman  went  up-stairs  to  Rosalie, 
slowly  but  without  delay,  feeling  that  vague  help- 
lessness that  comes  to  men  when  there  is  trouble 
in  the  family. 

She  was  lying  face  down  on  the  bed,  rigid,  her 
hands  clenched  tightly,  but  her  shoulders  rose  and 
fell  with  heavy  sobs. 

Something  in  her  attitude  told  him  that  this 
was  vital,  not  just  a  little  tempestuous  outburst 
that  could  be  readily  brushed  aside.  He  sat  down 
close  by  her  on  the  bed,  and  laid  his  arm  across 
her  shoulders  tenderly. 

"Rosalie,"  he  whispered,  and  as  she  flung  her- 
self upon  him  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  white  face 
and  stormy  eyes,  quickly  hidden  from  his  search- 
ing gaze. 

Very  gently  he  caressed  her,  asking  no  ques- 
121 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

tion,  patting  and  fondling  her  as  he  would  have 
done  to  a  little  hurt  or  frightened  child.  And 
then  when  the  sobs  came  more  easily,  she  stood 
up  away  from  him  suddenly  and  looked  straight 
into  his  face,  and  her  eyes  were  hard. 

"I  do  not  intend  to  be  a  Christian  any  more — 
not  ever  any  more.  It  is  all  over.  I  hate  them.  I 
think  they  are  horrible.  Christianity  is  nothing 
• — it  is  a  cheat — and  ministers  are  the  worst  of 
all." 

"Rosalie,  my  little  girl,  have  I — done  some- 
thing?" he  cried  in  a  startled  voice,  for  this  was 
new  even  to  him,  who  had  coped  with  the  moods 
of  daughters  for  many  years. 

"Oh,  father,  not  you — how  can  you  think  that  ? 
Listen.  It  is  that  wicked,  abominable  old  married 
Boltman.  What  do  you  suppose  he  did?  I  came 
in  from  school,  and  Doris  was  at  the  store.  He 
said  I  was  the  loveliest  thing  he  had  ever  seen, 
and  I  said,  'Thanks,'  very  curtly,  for  I  thought 
it  was  downright  impudence,  that's  what  I 
thought.  And  before  I  could  even  dream  of  such 
a  thing,  he  put  his  arms  around  me  and  kissed 
122 


THE  SERPENT 

me  twice — kissed  me — right  on  the  lips.  He 
did." 

She  had  spoken  in  a  low  voice,  but  every  word 
fell  so  clearly,  so  distinctly,  that  it  was  almost  as 
if  she  had  shouted  aloud. 

"Rosalie !"  said  her  father  in  a  hoarse  whisper, 
and  Rosalie  could  see  that  his  hands  shook. 

"He  did.  He  kissed  me — twice.  Is  that  all  the 
ministry  stands  for  ?  And  he  is  married,  and  has 
children  of  his  own — and  he  is  in  our  home,  and 
I — why,  I  am  only  a  kid." 

"And  can  one — man — kill  your  faith  in  the 
sanctity  of  the  ministry — one  man,  Rosalie?" 

"There  may  be  some  other  decent  ones  besides 
you — but  how  can  I  tell  which  ones  they  are? 
How  can  anybody  tell?"  she  wailed.  "They  all 
come  praying,  and  saying  sweet  and  gentle  things 
— how  can  you  tell  which  ones  are  true  and  which 
ones — are  like  Boltman?" 

"We  have  always  had  the  wolves  inside  the 
fold,  dear.  And  of  old,  you  know,  they  had  their 
false  prophets  teaching  error." 

Rosalie  drooped  her  head  against  his  arm,  an3 
123 


did  not  speak.   The  gentle,  so  dearly  loved  voice, 
seemed  to  comfort  her. 

"I  had  hoped — I  have  tried — to  keep  my  life 
so  clean  before  you  girls  that  if  ever  a  time  should 
come,  like  this,  when  your  faith  was  put  to  the 
test,  you  could  look  at  me  and  say,  'But  there  is 
father.'  I  have  always  felt  it  was  a  part  of  father- 
hood, to  be  a  living  proof  before  the  children  of 
the  home.  I  must  have  failed  you  some  time." 

Rosalie  clung  to  him,  shaking  her  head  in  vio- 
lent denial. 

"He  ought  to  be  put  out  of  the  church,"  she 
whispered. 

"We  are  human,  Rosalie,  as  well  as  ministers. 
And  human  flesh  is  not  invincible.  God  is  very, 
very  reasonable  with  us.  David  betrayed  his 
trust,  but  God  forgave  him.  Peter  denied  his 
Lord,  but  was  restored  to  favor.  I  think  that 
God  forgives  us  when  we  fail  Him  even  yet — 
even  we  ministers — if  we  go  to  Him  for  purg- 
ing." 

"But,  father,  if  the  ministry  can't  keep  a  man 
good — what  can?" 

124 


THE  SERPENT 

"Nothing  but  the  spirit  of  the  Lord,  working 
in  us,  nothing  else,  Rosalie.  And  have  you  lost 
all  confidence  in  the  ministry?" 

Rosalie  squirmed.  "Not  in  you,  dearest.  Just 
in  the  rest  of  it." 

"Oh,  Rosalie,  is  your  faith  so  small?  People 
on  whom  I  counted  have  failed  me  many  times, 
yet  I  trust  the  next  one  just  the  same." 

"You  have  more  trust  to  begin  with  than  I 
have.  And  he  looked  so — ugly,  father — in  his 
eyes.  I  hate  to  think  that  women  have  to  sit  in 
the  church  and  look  up  to  him  in  the  pulpit — • 
God's  pulpit,  that  is  sacred." 

"Rosalie,  I  want  to  talk  to  you  just  a  minute, 
and  then  I  shall  go  down  and  leave  you  alone  to 
think  it  over  by  yourself.  Of  all  the  ministers 
we  have  had  in  our  home,  he  is  the  first  to  be- 
tray our  trust.  Only  one,  out  of  the  dozens  we 
have  had.  I  put  it  to  your  sense  of  justice,  to 
your  belief  in  fair  play.  Your  finger  is  pricked 
by  the  thorn  on  the  stem  of  the  rose,  but  you  do 
not  turn  your  eyes  from  all  the  lovely  roses  for- 
ever after.  The  dog  goes  mad  and  bites  the  hand 
125 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

that  has  petted  hirn,  but  you  do  not  say  all  dogs 
must  suffer  death.  One  girl  who  has  been  your 
friend  is  false  to  the  friendship  and  betrays  your 
confidence,  but  you  do  not  deny  yourself  the 
friendship  of  other  girls  on  that  account.  Many 
a  woman  has  been  deceived  by  her  lover,  but  she 
does  not  shut  her  heart  to  love  and  truth  the  rest 
of  her  life  because  of  that.  And  many  parents 
have  been  cut  to  the  quick  by  the  ingratitude  and 
the  disloyalty  of  a  much-loved  child,  but  they  do 
not  turn  deaf  ears  to  the  claims  of  other  children. 
It  may  be  consistent,  Rosalie,  to  say  that  if  one 
of  a  species  betrays  you  none  of  that  species  can 
be  trusted — it  may  be  consistent,  but  it  is  not 
generous,  it  is  not  kind,  it  is  not  womanly.  Think 
it  over,  dearest,  and  I  shall  come  to  you  again 
after  while." 

Then  he  went  down-stairs,  and  stood  grimly  at 
the  window  waiting  until  Mr.  Boltman  turned  in 
at  the  gate  of  the  manse,  and  went  out  the  stone 
walk  to  meet  him. 

"Have  you  decided  about  the  meetings  yet, 
126 


THE  SERPENT 

Brother?"  asked  Mr.  Boltman  eagerly,  not  noting 
the  white  lines  on  the  face  of  his  host. 

"Yes,  I  have  decided.  I  am  going  out  to  the 
garage — come  along,  will  you?" 

After  a  while  Rosalie  came  down-stairs  looking 
for  her  father,  and  she  hovered  close  to  Doris  as 
if  enjoying  the  protection  of  her  nearness,  but 
offering  no  explanations,  and  Doris  asked  no 
(questions.  So  the  two  were  together  when  the 
kitchen  door  banged  open,  and  Zee  and  Treasure, 
trembling  and  pallid,  rushed  in  upon  them. 

"What  is  it?"  cried  Doris  nervously.  "What 
is  the  matter?  Did  something  happen?" 

"Oh,  awful,"  cried  Zee,  quivering.  "Father 
and  Mr.  Boltman  had  a  fight." 

"What?" 

"They  came  into  the  barn — we  were  in  tfie 
haymow,  and  father  asked  if  he  was  going  to  ex- 
plain something,  and  Boltman  laughed  kind  of 
funny  and  said,  'Oh,  be  reasonable,  Artman,  you 
know  we  are  all  human.'  And  father  said,  and 
his  voice  sounded  very  grim  and — like  an  arch- 
127 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

angel,  or  something,  and  he  said,  'Yes,  thank 
God,  we  are,  but  some  of  us  have  manhood 
enough  to  make  us  good  to  children  and  loyal  to 
our  friends.'  And  father  said,  'There  is  some- 
thing in  the  Bible  about  the  man  who  puts  a  stum- 
bling block  in  the  way  of  one  of  His  little  ones — 
And  you  have  put  a  block  in  the  path  of  faith  for 
one  of  the  children  of  the  church.'  And  Boltman 
said,  'Won't  you  pray  with  me,  Brother?'  And 
father  said,  'Yes,  in  a  minute.  But  first  I  have  to 
let  you  know  what  I  think  of  you.'  And  father 
knocked  him  down —  He  did  that  very  thing,  we 
were  peeking  through  the  cracks,  and  Boltman's 
nose  bled  something  awful.  Then  father  got  a 
piece  of  waste  out  of  the  car,  and  wet  it  at  the 
hydrant  and  gave  it  to  Boltman  to  wipe  the  blood 
off,  and  then  he  said,  'Now  we  will  pray.'  And 
they  knelt  down —  What  did  father  say  in  his 
prayer,  Treasure  ?  I  was  so  scared  I  couldn't  hear 
good." 

"He  said,  'Oh,  God,  wash  the  heart  of  this  man 
who  professes  to  be  thy  minister,  and  teach  him 
loyalty,  teach  him  tenderness,  teach  him  purity!' 
128 


or  something  like  that.  And  he  said,  'And,  dear 
God,  help  me  to  remove  that  stumbling  block 
from  the  path  of  Thy  little  one/  And  then  father 
said,  'Now  get  out.  I  will  pack  your  bag  and 
send  it  to  the  train  for  you/  " 

"And  father  struck  out  through  the  meadow 
as  fast  as  he  could  go,  and  Boltman  wiped  the 
rest  of  the  blood  off,  and  went  toward  town, 
and—" 

"Whatever  in  the  world  do  you  suppose — " 

"We  must  not  ask  any  questions,  girls,"  said 
Doris  quickly,  without  glancing  at  Rosalie's  face. 
"It  is  something  connected  with  the  ministry,  and 
you  know  those  things  are  sacred  to  father.  So 
we  must  not  ask  about  it,  but  let  it  pass." 

Rosalie's  eyes  were  suddenly  very  bright,  and 
she  turned  and  ran  breathlessly  up  the  stairs. 
She  knew  that  when  her  father  was  ready,  he 
would  come  to  her.  And  after  a  time,  came 
father,  with  a  little  of  shame  in  his  eyes,  and  a 
flush  on  his  face. 

"And  how  is  the  Problem  now?"  he  asked 
'gently. 

129 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"All  solved,"  she  cried.  "A  fatherly  blow 
from  a  strong  right  arm  was  the  answer." 

"I— You— How— " 

"The  girls  were  in  the  haymow,  but  they  do 
not  know  what  it  is  all  about,  and  Doris  said  we 
preachers  must  not  ask  questions  in  a  case  like 
that." 

"Rosalie,"  he  said,  "some  people  say  that  God 
does  not  watch  over  us,  and  guard  us.  Yet  Provi- 
dence certainly  kept  that  man  out  of  the  house 
when  you  first  told  me, — I  am  afraid  I  could  have 
killed  him — there  was  hate  in  my  heart — not  now, 
dear.  And  believe  this,  dear,  I  did  not  strike 
him  in  anger.  I  thought  it  over  carefully  and  de- 
cided it  would  do  him  good.  But  I  did  not  hit 
him  furiously,  or  wildly — it  was  deliberate." 

"Then  you  do  not  always  believe  in — turning 
the  other  cheek  ?" 

"I  do  not  believe  in  carrying  it  to  the  point  of 
offering  another  daughter  to  the  man  who  of- 
fends," he  said  quickly. 

"I  think,"  she  said  thoughtfully — "I  believe — 
a  false  prophet  was  probably  the  Serpent  in  the 
130 


THE  SERPENT 

Garden  of  Eden.  They  are  very  upsetting,  you 
know — I  am  sure  it  was  nothing  less  than  a  bad 
minister  that  overcame  Eve's  scruples." 

"Perhaps."  And  then  he  added  wistfully,  "Do 
you  still  have  that  feeling  of  abhorrence  for — us 
preachers  ?" 

"Oh,  father,  nobody  could  lose  confidence  in 
the  ministry  when  you  emphasize  your  argument 
with  your  muscle.  It  is  all  over.  Isn't  it  a  good 
thing  I  know  you  ?  For  you  could  cancel  a  dozen 
bad  preachers,  for  me  at  least.  I'm  sorry  for  the 
way  I  talked.  It  was  very  foolish,  and  very 
wicked.  Why,  do  you  know,  for  a  while,  I  ac- 
tually held  God  resoonsible  for  that  creature?  I 
thought,  'How  can  God  allow  such  a  monster  to 
go  about  preaching  His  gospel  ?'  And  then,  after 
you  talked  to  me,  I  saw  that  he  was  only  the  ser- 
pent trying  to  despoil  God's  vineyard." 

"Oh,  Rosalie,  how  many  of  us  do  that  very 
thing.  Instead  of  thanking  God  for  the  lovely 
vineyard  He  has  given  us,  we  blame  Him  for  the 
serpent  curling  at  the  roots.  Yet  the  serpent  is 
not  all  powerful — even  we  have  strength  to  drive 
131 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

him  away — God  saw  to  that.  But  no,  instead  of 
using  our  strength  as  it  was  intended,  we  say, 
'God  should  not  allow  the  serpent  in  the  vine- 
yard !'  Then  it  is  all  over,  and  you  are  still  glad 
and  proud  to  be  one  of  'Us  Preachers/  are  you?" 
"Gladder  and  prouder  than  ever,"  she  said 
warmly,  but  her  father  saw  in  her  eyes  a  little 
dark  shadow  of  disillusionment  that  had  never 
been  in  Rosalie's  bright  eyes  before. 


CHAPTER  VII 

DISCIPLINE 

<</^>\H,  we  had  a  perfectly  glorious  time, 
V^/Doris,"  cried  Rosalie,  skipping  into  the 
manse  with  her  face  fairly  glowing.  "It  is  such 
a  lovely  crowd,  and  we  have  such  laughing  times 
together — and  we  got  whole  sacks  full  of  hickory 
nuts,  and  Bert  gave  me  his  share,  too.  Is  supper 
ready?  I  am  so  hungry.  We  thought  we  had 
twice  too  much  lunch,  but  we  ate  it  all,  and  were 
tempted  to  raid  the  orchards  coming  home,  we 
were  so  ravenous.  Do  hurry  along,  there's  a  nice 
General.  Do  we  have  to  wait  for  anybody?" 

"Oh,  Rosalie,  how  young  you  are  when  you 
are  hungry,"  cried  Doris  affectionately.  "It  isn't 
nearly  time  for  dinner,  but  we'll  eat  as  soon  as 
the  girls  come.  Father  won't  be  here  to-night, 
and  we  only  have  cream  potato  soup,  but  you  love 
it,  and  I  made  heaps.  Aren't  the  girls  in  sight? 
They  promised  to  come  early  and — " 
133 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Yes,  here  they  come.  [You  dish  up  the  soupt 
and  I'll  carry  it  in." 

So  with  a  great  deal  of  chattering  and  laugh*- 
ter,  and  endless  running  back  and  forth,  Rosalie 
pulled  up  the  chairs  and  carried  the  plates  of  soup 
to  the  table,  waltzing  Doris  to  her  place  just  as 
the  younger  girls  came  in. 

"Hurry,  hurry,"  begged  Rosalie.  "Father 
isn't  here  to-night,  so  you  needn't  take  time  to 
brush.  For  once  I  am  glad  we  don't  have  to 
wait  for  the  blessing." 

So  the  girls  rushed  to  the  table,  and  when 
Rosalie  was  happily  immersed  in  her  soup,  Doris 
said,  rather  shyly : 

"I  am  glad  you  spoke  of  the  blessing,  Rosalie, 
for — I  want  to  say  something  about  that  myself, 
and  I  haven't  had  the  nerve,  though  I  have  been 
thinking  of  it  for  quite  a  while.  I  think  it  is  a 
shame  for  us  preachers  to  sit  down  and  eat  with- 
out giving  thanks,  just  because  father  is  not  here 
to  do  the  talking  for  us." 

Rosalie  paused,  spoon  li  f  ted  in  mid-air.  "Mercy, 
General,  are  you  brave  enough  to  tackle  that  ?" 
134 


DISCIPLINE 

"I  agree  with  you,  Doris,"  said  Zee  promptly. 
"I  feel  like  a  heathen  when  we  eat  without  the 
blessing.  And  I  think  you  and  Rosalie  ought  to 
be  ashamed  of  yourselves." 

"I  am  willing  to  take  my  turn,"  said  Treasure, 
"if  you  won't  be  critical." 

"Why,  Treasure,  you  dear  little  thing.  Then 
is  it  all  settled  that  we  take  turns  giving  thanks 
when  father  is  away  ?  For  I  believe  father  thinks 
we  do  it  right  along,  and  I  should  be  ashamed  to 
let  him  know  we  don't." 

"I  can't — I  am  too  young,"  said  Zee  bashfully. 

"You  aren't  too  young  to  thank  father  when 
he  gives  you  a  nickel." 

"Well,  I  will  try  it  once,  but  I  speak  for  the 
last  turn.  And  if  Rosalie  so  much  as  smiles  I'll 
never  do  it — " 

"Say,  do  you  think  I  am  an  infidel  ?"  demanded 
Rosalie  indignantly.  "Of  course  I  shall  not 
smile.  Go  ahead,  then,  General,  begin."  She 
dropped  her  spoon  and  shut  her  eyes. 

"Maybe — shall    we — do   you   think   I    ought 


135 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Let's  draw  cuts  to  see  who  takes  the  first 
plunge,"  cried  Zee.  "I'll  hold  the  straws  while 
the  rest  of  you  draw." 

"Zee,  sit  down.  I  am  surprised  at  you.  We 
must  not  draw  cuts  about  the  blessing.  I  will  be- 
gin." Doris  looked  anxiously  about  the  table, 
scanning  her  sisters'  faces  for  signs  of  amuse- 
ment, but  they  were  preternaturally  grave  and 
earnest. 

So  in  a  meek  and  lowly  voice,  in  a  manner  that 
spoke  of  anything  but  a  pharisaical  blasting  of 
trumpets,  Doris  asked  a  blessing  on  their  food. 
And  the  girls  sighed  with  satisfaction  when  she 
said  Amen,  proclaiming  their  comfort  in  having 
conformed  to  the  ministerial  proprieties,  and  kept 
the  sanctity  of  the  manse  intact. 

"We  had  a  perfectly  ducky  time  to-day,"  said 
Rosalie,  while  Doris  was  refilling  her  plate  with 
soup.  "We  got  a  half  a  bushel  of  nuts  apiece,  and 
Bert  gave  me  his  besides,  on  condition  that  I  in- 
vite him  to  help  eat  them  once  a  week." 

"By  the  way,  who  went  nutting  to-day,  any* 
how?"  asked  Zee  suddenly. 
136 


DISCIPLINE 

"We  did — our  college  bunch.'* 

"It  was  not  your  Sunday-school  class,  was  it  ?" 

Rosalie  flashed  a  questioning  look  at  her  sis- 
ter. "No,  it  was  not  the  class — exactly,"  she  said 
reluctantly.  "The  girls  are  in  my  class,  though." 

"Was  it  the  whole  class?"  persisted  Zee. 

"Why  are  you  asking  so  many  questions? 
What  difference  does  it  make  to  you  who  went? 
Whatever  made  you  think  of  the  Sunday-school 
class  anyhow  ?" 

"We  met  little  Nora  Gordon  on  the  street  to- 
day, and  she  asked  if  you  went  nutting,  and  who 
went  along,  and  I  said  Mabel  and  Frances  and 
Gloria  and  Annabelle  and  Sara  and  the  college 
boys.  And  she  said,  "Then  it  was  their  Sunday- 
school  class,  and  they  didn't  invite  my  sister  and 
she  feels  awful/  " 

"Oh,  mercy,"  said  Rosalie,  "we  tried  to  keep  it 
from  her — that  is,  we  didn't  suppose  she  would 
find  out — anyhow,  it  was  a  college  crowd,  and 
Alicia  Gordon  does  not  go  to  college." 

"Did  all  the  rest  of  the  class  go  except 
Alicia?"  asked  Doris. 

137 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Well,  yes,  it  isn't  a  very  big  class,  you  know, 
and  we  all  go  to  college,  except  Alicia.  She 
works.  But  is  was  a  regular  college  crowd — and 
the  boys  don't  like  Alicia,  she  never  has  a  date 
with  anybody.  She  is  kind  of  poky." 

"You  knew  it  would  hurt  her  feelings  if  she 
found  it  out,  didn't  you?" 

"Well,  perhaps,  but  we  didn't  intend  she  should 
find  it  out.  I  wonder  who  told  her?  It  was  a 
nasty  little  trick,  and  if  you  did  it,  Miss  Zee— 

"I  didn't.  What  did  I  know  about  your  old 
picnic?  And  when  I  saw  how  Nora  felt,  I  told 
her  over  and  over  it  was  a  college  affair,  didn't 
I,  Treasure?" 

"Yes,  but  their  feelings  are  hurt,  anyhow." 

"Now,  of  course,  you  are  blaming  me,  Doris, 
but  we  couldn't  take  her  along.  The  boys  don't 
care  for  her,  and  she  can't  expect  us  to  make 
dates  for  her." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  her?" 

"Nothing,  but  she  sits  around  like  a  stick  and 
never  says  boo.  Boys  make  her  nervous.  I  like 
her  well  enough  myself,  though  she  never  says 
138 


DISCIPLINE 

much  and  clams  up  completely  when  a  man 
heaves  in  sight.  A  pretty  enough  girl,  and  dresses 
well — but  what  could  we  do  with  her  on  a  nut- 
ting party?" 

"I  think  it  was  a  very  un-manse-like  thing  to 
do,  and  I  am  sorry." 

"I  am  sorry  she  found  it  out  myself.  But  I 
hardly  know  her." 

"Why  don't  you  know  her,  if  she  is  in  your 
class?" 

"She  never  goes  where  we  go,  and — you  just 
can't  get  acquainted  with  her." 

"Did  you  ever  try?" 

"Um,  not  very  hard,  I  suppose.  She  ought  to 
meet  one  half-way." 

"Some  people  can't,  and  you  know  it.  That  is 
why  they  have  us  preachers,  to  go  the  whole  way 
to  meet  those  who  can't,  or  won't,  come  a  step 
toward  us.  I'm  afraid — you  ought  to  be  disci- 
plined, Rosalie." 

Zee  leaped  up,  clapping  her  hands.     "Good. 
Whip  her,  Doris.     Go  on,  give  her  a  good  one, 
for  once,  the  bad  thing." 
139 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Oh,  Zee,  Doris  can't  whip  a  big  thing  like 
Rosalie,"  protested  Treasure  anxiously. 

"Don't  be  silly,  girls,"  said  Rosalie.  "I  see 
what  you  mean,  Doris,  and  I  am  quite  willing. 
Pronounce  the  sentence,  General." 

"Well,  Alicia  works  on  Saturday  morning,  but 
she  is  off  in  the  afternoon,  isn't  she  ?  So  the  pun- 
ishment is  that  you  must  have  her  come  and  spend 
the  afternoon  and  stay  for  supper  and  all  night 
and  go  to  Sunday-school  with  us  the  next  morn- 
ing. Then  you  will  have  a  good  chance  to  get 
regularly  acquainted  with  her." 

Rosalie  went  directly  to  the  telephone.  "Well, 
now  is  the —  Oh,  Doris,  not  this  week.  We  are 
going  to  stay  all  night  at  Adele's  you  know,  and 
make  taffy/' 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Doris  gently. 

Rosalie  soberly  searched  her  sister's  face  a  mo- 
ment, then  without  comment,  called  the  number, 
and  asked  for  Alicia.  She  gave  the  invitation  in 
a  friendly  cordial  voice,  showing  no  hint  of  per- 
turbation or  coercion,  and  after  a  moment's 
pause,  Alicia  accepted. 

140 


DISCIPLINE 

"But  whatever  in  the  world  we  are  going  to  do 
with  that  solemn  Alicia  Gordon  for  eighteen 
hours,  I  do  not  know.  You'll  have  to  do  most 
of  the  talking,  Doris." 

"Oh,  no,  indeed;  she  is  your  guest.  We  put 
her  in  your  hands  absolutely  and  you  alone  will 
be  responsible  for  her  comfort." 

"But,  General—" 

"If  she  is  my  company,  you  won't  get  mucfi 
punishment  out  of  it,  will  you?" 

Rosalie  sighed  heavily.  "Eighteen  hours — > 
she  will  come  right  from  work — that  means 
luncheon.  Oh,  Doris,  you  do  not  know  what  a 
blow  she  is.  And  a  nice  enough  girl,  too — but 
whatever  can  we  talk  about  for  eighteen  hours  ?" 

Doris  had  no  suggestions  forthcoming,  and  to 
make  the  affliction  greater,  on  Saturday  she  made 
unexpected  arrangements  to  drive  to  the  country 
with  her  father. 

"And  you  can  get  lunch  for  yourself  and  the 
girls,  can't  you,  Rosalie  dear?" 

"But  Alicia  Gordon—" 

"Oh,  she  won't  mind.  I'll  be  home  in  time  to 
141 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

have  a  nice  dinner  for  you.    Bye,  Rosalie;  good 
luck." 

Alicia  arrived  from  her  work  almost  as  soon 
as  Rosalie  came  in  from  a  business  meeting  of 
the  Literary  Society,  and  a  heated  discussion  of 
menus  was  immediately  in  progress. 

"You  must  help  us,  Alicia.  We  are  trying  to 
get  up  a  fashionable  company  luncheon  in  your 
honor,  and  we  can't  think  of  anything  fashion- 
able that  I  have  brains  enough  to  cook." 

Zee  watched  closely,  but  Alicia  never  so  much 
as  smiled,  though  any  one  might  know  Rosalie 
had  meant  to  be  funny. 

"Let's  not  be  fashionable,"  she  said  evenly. 
"Let's  figure  out  what  is  easiest  to  prepare,  and 
have  it." 

"Wouldn't  be  proper,"  insisted  Rosalie.  "Doris 
always  wants  us  to  be  proper  when  we  have  com- 
pany." 

"French  fried  potatoes  are  fashionable,"  said 
Zee. 

"Too  much  work." 

"Corn  fritters  are  nice,"  said  Treasure. 
142 


DISCIPLINE 

"I  do  not  like  corn,"  said  Alicia. 

They  looked  at  one  another  soberly.  "I  tell 
you  what,"  said  Rosalie  at  last.  "Let's  go  to 
the  pantry  and  see  what  we  can  find." 

The  four  ran  pell-mell  to  the  pantry,  and 
looked  over  the  shelves  hastily,  but  with  thor- 
oughness. 

"A  custard  pie,  thank  goodness,"  said  Rosalie. 
"That  settles  the  dessert." 

"I  am  going  to  have  this  apple  sauce  and  bread 
and  butter,"  said  Treasure  suddenly.  "You  folks 
can  get  what  you  like." 

"Oh,  I'm  going  to  have  toast  and  milk,"  cried 
Zee.  "I'll  toast  it  myself— and— " 

"I'd  like  a  fried  egg  sandwich,"  said  Alicia, 
"if  you  do  not  mind.  And  I  want  to  fix  it  my- 
self. I  just  love  them,  and  mother  never  has 
time  to  make  them  for  our  big  family." 

"I'll  have  one,  too,"  decided  Rosalie.  "Sup- 
pose you  fix  mine  when  you  do  yours,  and  I'll  be 
making  hot  chocolate  for  all  of  us.  And  we'll 
have  some  sweet  pickles  if  Zee  will  bring  them 
from  the  cellar." 

143 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

In  the  confusion  of  getting  four  separate 
luncheons  on  one  gas  stove  at  the  same  minute, 
one  could  not  find  time  for  much  formality.  Zee 
stepped  on  Alicia's  toes,  and  Alicia  splashed  hot 
butter  on  Treasure's  hand,  and  Rosalie  let  the 
chocolate  boil  over  on  the  eggs.  But  finally  they 
were  seated  companionably  about  the  table,  and 
by  that  time  they  were  fairly  well  acquainted. 

When  luncheon  was  over,  Zee  and  Treasure 
set  about  the  dishes,  and  Rosalie  and  Alicia  dis- 
appeared. But  when  Rosalie  came  into  the 
kitchen  on  an  errand  a  little  later,  Zee  said : 

"She  seems  all  right,  I  think.  I  bet  she  needs 
A  beau." 

"What  makes  you  think  that?" 

"Well,  you  say  you  need  them  to  keep  your 
soul  in — to — to — I  forgot  just  what  you  do  say, 
but  anyhow  you  always  declare  you  can't  be  nor- 
mal without  a  beau.  And  I  guess  all  girls  are 
alike,  so  Alicia  needs  one,  too." 

Rosalie  went  out  of  the  kitchen,  thinking  hard. 
"I  wonder — "  she  said.    "I  believe  I  can—       She 
went  directly  to  the  telephone,  and  called  Bert. 
144 


DISCIPLINE 

"I  have  a  friend  spending  the  night  with  me," 
she  said.  "A  town  girl.  You  know  I  told  you  I 
was  busy  and  could  not  keep  our  date.  But  I  won- 
der if  you  can't  get  another  man  and  come  and 
help  us  make  candy?" 

Bert  was  desolated,  but  since  Rosalie  had  said 
she  was  busy,  he  had  made  other  arrangements — 
he  didn't  care  two  cents  about  the  girl  they  picked 
out  for  him — wasn't  it  beastly  luck —  He  would 
break  the  date,  that's  what  he'd  do. 

Rosalie  would  not  hear  of  it,  and  she  stopped 
the  conversation  abruptly  and  looked  at  Alicia, 

"Men  are  all  alike,  aren't  they?  Here  he  has 
been  telling  me  for  two  months  that  I  am  the  only 
girl  in  college — I  shall  get  even  with  him.  I'll 
just  have  a  senior,  and  that  will  make  him  wild. 
Bob  Harton  is  always  asking  me  for  dates,  but  is 
always  just  too  late.  So  I  can  ask  him  perfectly 
all  right,  and  we'll  have  him  bring — let  me  see — 
I  know — Arthur  Gooding,  a  'post' — and  terribly 
sensible." 

So  she  ran  to  the  telephone  again,  in  spite  of 
Alicia's  protests,  and  called  the  second  number. 
145 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Oh,  Bob,"  she  began,  "this  is  Rosalie  Art- 
man.  I  am  always  taken  when  you  try  to  make  a 
date  with  me,  so  I  thought  I  would  try  my  hand 
on  you.  I  have  a  town  girl  staying  all  night,  and 
we  want  you  to  come  and  help  us  celebrate.  And 
can't  you  ask  Arthur  Gooding  to  come  ?  I  do  not 
know  him  very  well  myself,  but  he  is  so  sensible, 
and  this  is  a  very  sensible  girl,  so  they  ought 
to  get  on  wonderfully.  Will  you  see  ?  Oh,  that 
is  just  lovely." 

"I  do  not  know  how  to  talk  to  men,  Rosalie, 
I  never  had  a  date  in  my  life.  I  can't  think  of 
things  to  say." 

"Leave  it  to  me,"  cried  Rosalie  blithely.  "I 
can  do  most  of  the  talking.  And  Arthur  is  so  sen- 
sible you  won't  have  to  talk.  Just  sit  back  and 
look  wise,  and  he  will  think  you  are  wonderful. 
And  Bob  is  lots  of  fun,  and — oh,  it  will  be  easy." 

The  rest  of  the  afternoon  passed  comfortably 
enough  getting  ready  for  the  evening,  and  the 
girls  had  told  the  boys  good  night,  and  gone  up- 
stairs before  Rosalie  remembered  that  Alicia  was 
a  bore. 

146 


DISCIPLINE 

When  they  went  into  their  room  for  the  night, 
she  turned  Alicia's  face  to  the  light  and  scruti- 
nized the  bright  quiet  eyes,  and  the  flushed  but 
still  placid  face. 

"Marvels  will  never  cease,"  she  said  solemnly. 
"I  am  not  sensible,  I  don't  want  to  be  sensible,  I 
don't  even  believe  in  sense,  and  I  talk  all  the 
time,  and  the  silliest  talk  I  can  think  of — but  that 
perfectly  dignified  sober  Arthur  Gooding,  who 
is  a  'post,'  fell  for  me  like  a  flash,  head  over  heels. 
And  he  was  invited  for  you !  And  you  sat  back 
in  a  corner  saying  as  near  nothing  as  possible, 
but  that  irrepressible  Bob  Harton  could  not  keep 
three  feet  away  from  you  all  evening,  and  never 
took  his  eyes  off  your  face  once.  Come  now, 
'fess  up.  Did  he  make  a  date  with  you?" 

"Three — one  for  to-morrow,  and  two  for  next 
week,"  admitted  Alicia,  smiling  softly.  "Isn't  he 
funny  and  bright?" 

Rosalie  turned  her  back,  and  stared  up  at  the 
ceiling.  "Well,"  she  said  at  last,  "I  always  have 
thought  you  quiet  girls  were  dangerous,  if  you 
ever  get  started." 

147 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

Alicia  came  over  to  her  suddenly,  and  said, 
"Thank  you  for  getting  me  started.  I  had  a 
lovely  time.  I  thought  you  did  not  like  me, 
Rosalie.  You'll  forgive  me,  won't  you  ?" 

Rosalie  flung  her  arms  impulsively  around 
Alicia's  shoulders.  "I  had  a  lovely  time  myself. 
And  I  do  like  you — but  I  shall  try  to  forgive  you, 
if  you  never  do  it  again,"  she  said  virtuously. 
But  as  they  were  getting  into  bed,  she  said  sud- 
denly, "Isn't  that  Zee  the  shrewd  one,  though?" 
And  Alicia  wondered  what  Zee  had  to  do  with  the 
question  in  hand. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   BISHOP 

DORIS  went  to  bed  very  early  in  the  first 
place,  a  thing  she  firmly  resolved  never  to 
do  again  under  any  circumstances.  Zee  and 
Treasure  were  soundly  and  sweetly  sleeping. 
Father  had  gone,  in  the  car,  to  some  very  for- 
mal and  dignified  affair  where  there  were  to  be 
two  college  presidents  and  a  Methodist  bishop, 
and  no  one  ever  knows  when  to  expect  folks 
home  if  there  is  a  bishop  in  it.  Rosalie  was 
spending  the  evening  with  one  of  her  friends, 
and  just  an  hour  ago  had  telephoned  that  she  was 
going  to  spend  the  night,  and  Doris  should  not 
wait  up  for  her. 

So  in  the  face  of  all  that,  there  was  nothing 
for  Doris  to  do  but  go  to  bed.  But  she  could  not 
sleep.  She  tossed  and  tumbled,  and  finally,  after 
counting  both  sheep  and  stars  long  and  persist- 
ently, and  after  repeating  to  herself  all  the  sooth- 
149 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

ing  and  sleep-provoking  poetry  she  could  think 
of,  she  did  fall  into  a  troubled  slumber. 

A  long  time  afterward  she  became  conscious 
of  vague  unrest.  It  must  be  terribly  late,  yet  Doris 
was  acutely  certain  that  some  one  was  moving 
around — doing  something — things  evidently  were 
not  right 

She  slipped  out  of  bed,  and  drew  her  flannel 
kimono  about  her.  In  the  next  room,  her  younger 
sisters  were  sleeping  heavily.  Her  father's  door 
was  ajar,  and  she  peered  in,  noting  the  humpy 
outlines  of  the  beautiful  blue  and  white  Ladies' 
Aid  quilt  over  the  tall  figure.  Then  a  sudden 
glance  from  the  hall  window;  beside  her  sent  a 
chill  to  her  very  heart. 

The  door  of  the  barn — the  "garage"  now,  by 
grace  of  dear  Mr.  Davison's  red  car — was  slowly, 
softly  opening.  A  man  stepped  out  from  the 
shadow  and  passed  inside,  the  door  swinging  wide 
behind  him.  Then  came  the  whirr  of  the  engine, 
as  he  stepped  on  the  starter. 

Like  a  flash  Doris  leaped  into  her   father's 
room,  and  clutched  his  shoulders. 
150 


THE  BISHOP 

"Run,  run,"  she  shouted  lustily.  "Run  for 
your  life.  Some  one  is  stealing  the  car.  Father!" 

Under  the  exertion  of  her  strong  arms,  the 
figure  rose  quickly  in  the  bed,  and  a  long  shaft  of 
moonshine  rested  across  his  face — and  it  was  a 
stranger.  Doris  stared  at  him  in  amazement, 
holding  the  flannel  robe  about  her  throat  more 
tightly,  and  then  she  sank  back  away  from  him, 
still  staring. 

"Who— are— you?" 

"I  am  the  bishop,  my  dear,"  he  answered,  too 
startled  to  remember  he  wasn't  the  only  bishop  in 
the  world.  "Your  father  brought  me  home  with 
him  to  spend  the  night. — Isn't  he  here?  Why, 
where  is  he  ?  He  came  to  bed  with  me." 

"Good  night,"  said  Doris,  with  icy  dignity,  and 
she  arose  and  swept  haughtily  from  the  room. 

At  the  hall  window  she  heard  again  the  spin 
of  the  motor,  and  the  low  purr  as  the  engine 
leaped  into  action,  and  the  car  rolled  out  of  the 
garage.  It  was  father,  of  course — and  bare- 
headed, too,  in  the  middle  of  the  night — an  idi- 
otic thing  for  a  minister  to  do,  going  off  for  a 
151 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

midnight  joy-ride  leaving  a  bishop  in  his  bed — 
Well,  Doris  should  worry!  If  a  preacher  couldn't 
take  care  of  himself,  who  could? 

She  went  resolutely  back  to  bed,  but  not  to 
sleep.  Where  in  the  world  had  father  gone? 
[Why  had  he  brought  a  bishop  into  their  home, 
and  put  him  to  bed,  and  then  sneaked  off  and  left 
him  there?  And  by  every  conceivable  stretch  of 
the  imagination  that  fellow  in  father's  bed  was 
too  young  to  do  any  respectable  bishoping,  she 
;was  sure  of  that.  Maybe  he  had  only  pretended 
to  be  a  bishop,  and  father  had  discovered  the  de- 
ception, and  gone  for  the  sheriff — or — oh,  dear! 

If  he  was  a  bishop,  Doris  knew  that  no  one 
on  earth  but  the  Methodists  would  have  such  a 
young  one.  The  Presbyterians  did  not  approve  of 
bishops  in  the  first  place,  but  if  they  did,  they 
would  have  old  ones  with  gray  hair  and  wrinkles. 

When  she  heard  the  car  run  into  the  garage 
again  she  leaped  from  her  bed  and  hurried  down- 
stairs. Her  father  and  Rosalie  were  coming  in 
together,  laughing  as  unconcernedly  as  though 
bishops  were  every-day  occurrences. 
152 


THE  BISHOP 

"Oh,  Doris,  father  was  so  excited  about  the 
bishop  he  forgot  me,"  giggled  Rosalie. 

"You  said  you  were  not  coming  home,"  said 
Doris  indignantly. 

"I  changed  my  mind.  I  have  a  class  at  eight  in 
the  morning,  and  I  was  afraid  I  might  not  make 
it.  So  I  just  phoned  father  to  call  for  me  in  the 
car,  and  he  told  me  to  wait  until  he  got  there,  and 
I  did,  but  he  forgot  me." 

"The  bishop  came  home  with  me,  and — " 

"Don't  I  know  it?"  interrupted  Doris  hotly. 

"And  I  forgot  Rosalie,  and  then  when  we  got 
to  bed  I  remembered.  And  the  bishop  was  asleep 
so  I  slipped  out,  and — '* 

"Good  night,"  said  Doris  curtly,  and  stalked 
up  the  stairs  like  an  offended  Lady  Macbeth. 

"Isn't  she  dramatic?"  laughed  Rosalie.  "Would 
it  shock  the  church  if  we  put  her  on  the  stage?" 

"I  wonder  what  happened?  Well,  let's  go  to 
bed,  she'll  be  all  right  in  the  morning." 

"Aren't  you  hungry,   'fath'?    Let's   raid  the 
ipantry,  shall  we?   That  will  be  a  good  joke  on 
Doris,  to  pay  her  for  her  airs." 
153 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

After  the  lunch  they  crept  softly  up-stairs  to 
bed,  and  Rosalie  kept  up  a  pleasant  chattering 
conversation  which  Doris  met  with  unfriendly 
silence.  What  in  the  world  would  the  bishop 
think  of  her?  Whatever  were  they  going  to  have 
for  breakfast?  Of  course,  father  had  always 
been  free  to  bring  people  whenever  he  liked — but 
a  bishop !  Oh,  well ! 

The  next  morning  she  ran  down-stairs  very 
early,  and  took  stock  of  the  stores  in  the  pantry. 
For  the  first  time  she  almost  wished  she  had 
chosen  the  cow  instead  of  the  car — real  cream 
would  cover  so  many  breakfast  shortages.  For- 
tunately there  was  one  can  of  peaches  in  the 
cellar — they  were  being  saved  for  a  special  occa- 
sion, but  nothing  could  be  any  more  special  than 
a  bishop.  They  could  not  have  oatmeal,  for  Rosa- 
lie and  father  had  finished  off  the  milk.  There 
were  three  eggs — she  might  cook  them  for  the 
bishop,  and  tell  him  the  family  was  on  diet — • 
ridiculous!  She  might  make  pancakes — that 
would  be  ample  excuse  for  Doris  to  remain  in 
the  kitchen,  too,  and  although  she  was  a  social 
154 


THE  BISHOP 

soul,  she  did  not  yearn  to  appear  before  that 
bishop,  in  spite  of  wondering  whether  he  could 
truly  be  as  young  as  he  had  looked  in  the  moon- 
light in  the  middle  of  the  night. 

She  stirred  up  the  batter  with  commendable 
zeal. 

"Doris,"  came  an  imperative  call  from  Zee  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs.  "Oh,  Doris !"  And  Zee's 
voice  was  shrill  and  penetrating.  "Do — ris! 
Make  Rosalie  give  back  my  blue  ribbon — she 
borrowed  it — and  she  can't!" 

"Ummmmmm,"  muttered  Doris  grimly. 
"Wouldn't  that  be  sure  to  happen  on  a  bishop 
morning?"  She  ran  to  the  bottom  of  the  stairs. 

"Rosalie,  you  can't  borrow  it  if  Zee  won't  lend 
it,"  she  said  softly,  but  in  a  determined  voice. 
"But  I  am  surprised  that  Zee  would  refuse — " 

"I  didn't  refuse,"  protested  Zee.  "I  am  always 
willing  to  lend  things.  But  she  did  not  ask.  She 
just  snitched  it." 

"Zee,  you  must  not  say  snitched." 

"She  may  borrow  it,  if  she  asks,  and  says 
please,"  said  Zee. 

155 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

Then  Rosalie  flashed  into  the  hall  and  dropped 
on  her  knees,  both  hands  outstretched,  and  cried, 
"Oh,  sweet  young  sister,  for  the  sake  of  my  im- 
mortal beauty,  may  I — " 

"Rosalie!" 

"  'Scuse  me,  General.  Please,  fair  Zee,  may  I 
borrow  this  bonny  blue  ribbon  to  wear  in  my 
golden  locks?  And  you'd  better  say  yes,  for  I'm 
going  to  borrow  it  anyhow." 

Zee  promptly  pushed  her  over  backward,  and 
Rosalie  leaped  up  and  made  a  whirling  rush  at 
Zee,  who  tore  into  her  own  room,  where  Doris 
could  hear  them  bouncing  into  the  middle  of  the 
bed  with  a  resounding  spring — and  then  came 
stifled  laughter,  and  squeals,  and — 

Doris  ran  breathlessly  up  the  stairs.  She 
looked  soberly  at  the  flushed  and  laughing  girls, 
all  tangled  up  in  the  bed-clothes  on  the  floor,  and 
then  she  closed  the  door. 

"Rosalie,  what  will  the  bishop  think?" 

"Oh,  mercy,  I  forgot  the  bishop,"  cried  Rosa- 
lie. "Zee  Artman,  you  bad  thing,  see  what  you've 
done.  You've  shocked  a  bishop,  and  now  he  will 
156 


THE  BISHOP 

say  we  Presbyterians  are  not  orthodox.  It  was 
all  your  fault — " 

"Bishop?  What  bishop?  Where's  he  at? 
Where'd  we  get  him?  You  don't  mean  to  say 
father  brought  a  bishop  here  without  a  week's 
notice?  Isn't  that  like  a  preacher?" 

"Oh,  girls,  please  get  dressed  and  come  and 
help  me.  The  house  is  a  sight.  Treasure  left  that 
sticky  stuff — " 

"Papier-mache,"  said  Treasure  with  dignity. 
"It  is  very  scholastic,  we  use  it  to  make  maps 
with.  I  guess  it  won't  shock  a  bishop.  But  don't 
call  it  sticky  stuff — say  papier-mache." 

"I  do  not  care  what  it  is  called,  dear,  it  must 
not  be  left  all  over  the  chairs  in  the  dining-room 
— not  when  there  is  a  bishop  in  the  state." 

"It  is  a  shame,  General,  that's  what  it  is,"  said 
Rosalie  penitently.  "We'll  just  fly  now,  and  help 
like  good  preachers.  You  run  back  to  your  pan- 
cakes, and  don't  worry." 

They  made  so  much  haste  after  that  to  atone 
for  their  mischief  that  almost  immediately  they 
were  down-stairs.  Treasure  hurriedly  straight- 
157 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

ened  the  living-room,  Rosalie  set  the  table  most 
irreproachably,  and  Zee  slipped  into  the  back  yard 
and  picked  some  golden  glow. 

"Oh,  the  roots  were  on  the  Davis  side  of  the 
fence,  but  what  I  picked  was  on  our  side,"  she 
declared  when  Doris  frowned  at  her.  So  Rosalie 
arranged  the  flowers  in  a  big  blue  bowl  on  the 
table,  and  when  the  bishop  and  their  father  came 
down-stairs  laughing  agreeably,  everything  was 
lovely,  and  the  girls  were  spotlessly  clean,  soft  as 
to  voice,  and  gentle  as  to  manner.  And  although 
the  bishop's  eyes  twinkled  a  little,  his  face  was 
properly  grave.  He  was  not  even  as  old  as  their 
father — think  of  that  now — and  a  bishop — and 
he  had  a  way  of  telling  stories  which  was  quite 
attractive  in  regular  preachers  but  seemed  a  little 
out  of  harmony  in  a  bishop — and  in  a  few  min- 
utes they  were  all  good  friends. 

"Is  this  the  whole  family?"  asked  the  bishop, 
smiling  on  the  three  girls  with  approval. 

"My  oldest  daughter,  Doris,  is  getting  break- 
fast. As  a  special  treat,  she  is  giving  us  pan- 
cakes and  maple  sirup,  and  she  feels  they  require 
158 


THE  BISHOP 

her  constant  presence.  She  will  be  in  presently, 
however." 

Doris,  listening  at  the  door,  could  have  blessed 
her  father  for  the  words.  He  had  spoken  of  the 
pancakes  as  a  favor  instead  of  dire  necessity — 
and  perhaps  the  bishop  would  think  that  ordi- 
narily they  had  common  things  like  bacon  and 
eggs,  and  hot  muffins,  and  strawberry  preserves, 
and  grapefruit.  More  than  that,  he  had  offered 
a  half  apology  for  her  absence,  and  Doris  flatly 
refused  to  appear.  She  would  cook  for  the 
bishop,  she  would  wash  his  dishes  and  make  his 
bed — but  look  him  in  the  face  she  could  not. 

Presently  they  went  out  to  the  table,  and  Zee 
carefully  carried  the  platter  of  cakes  to  the  table, 
and  later  took  it  back  to  the  kitchen  for  refilling. 
And  Rosalie  chattered,  and  smiled  into  the  bish- 
op's eyes — for  practise,  she  said  afterward,  not 
because  she  really  hoped  to  dazzle  a  bishop,  and 
the  breakfast  went  smoothly  on. 

Doris,  in  the  kitchen,  flapped  the  cakes  over, 
and  pulled  the  griddles  back  and  forth  with  a 
fury  none  the  less  real  because  it  perforce  was 
159 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

silent,  for  in  spite  of  her  resentment  not  one 
sound  would  she  permit  to  reach  the  ears  of  the 
bishop  in  her  dining-room.  And  the  heat  of  the 
stove  made  her  cheeks  crimson,  and  her  bad  dis- 
position made  her  eyes  like  bright  sweet  stars. 

When  breakfast  was  over  the  bishop  seated 
himself  comfortably  with  a  paper  in  a  far  corner 
of  the  living-room  where  he  was  out  of  the 
way,  and  Rosalie  ran  off  to  college.  After  doing 
up  the  dishes,  the  younger  girls  also  hurried  to 
school,  and  Mr.  Artman  went  out  to  the  garage 
to  look  over  the  motor — not  that  he  knew  any- 
thing about  motors,  but  because  all  conscientious 
owners  of  autos  do  it. 

Doris  was  very  much  ashamed  of  her  childish 
temper  by  this  time,  but  after  so  long  an  absence 
she  had  not  the  heart  to  appear  properly  and 
humbly  before  the  bishop  to  welcome  him  to  the 
manse,  and  she  stuck  resolutely  to  the  kitchen 
getting  things  ready  for  dinner.  Still  the  bishop 
rocked  comfortably  in  the  living-room,  the  door 
open  between  him  and  the  dining-room  through 
which  Doris  must  pass  to  reach  the  other  part  of 
160 


THE  BISHOP 

the  house.  And  there  was  so  much  to  be  done 
up-stairs — maybe  she  could  slip  out  to  the  barn 
and  make  father  take  the  odious  bishop  for  a 
ride. 

Well,  did  you  ever!  There  came  a  sudden 
light  knock  on  the  kitchen  door,  and  before  Doris 
had  time  to  slip  off  the  table  where  she  had  been 
swinging  her  heels  in  perplexity  it  opened,  and 
the  bishop's  friendly  face  appeared. 

"Good  morning.  May  I  come  in?  How  busy 
you  are  to-day.  I  am  afraid  I  have  caused  you 
extra  work.  You  are  Miss  Doris,  aren't  you?  I 
shall  never  forget  the  hand  that  is  responsible  for 
those  delicious  pancakes." 

"Can  you  ever  forget  the  hand  that  jerked  you 
out  of  dreamland  in  the  middle  of  the  night?" 
she  asked,  laughing,  the  last  trace  of  her  anger 
vanishing  forever. 

Then  they  were  friends,  and  since  any  one 
could  see  plainly  there  was  nothing  in  the  house 
that  needed  her  particular  attention,  she  took  the 
bishop  into  the  yard  and  they  walked  under  the 
bare  branches  of  the  maples,  dragging  their  feet 
161 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

through  the  crinkly  fallen  leaves,  and  then  they 
visited  father  in  the  garage,  teasing  him  for  his 
motor  madness.  And  it  was  lunch  time  before 
one  could  realize  that  breakfast  was  entirely  a 
thing  of  the  past. 

Doris  could  have  apologized  for  her  rudeness 
very  easily,  for  the  bishop  had  a  way  of  helping 
one  to  speak.  But  she  knew  it  was  not  necessary, 
for  the  bishop  also  had  a  way  of  understanding 
even  when  words  were  left  unsaid.  And  Doris 
wondered  how  he  ever  came  to  be  a  Methodist ! 

As  Rosalie  said  afterward,  "You  ought  to 
know  better  than  to  feed  a  man  such  pancakes  if 
you  want  to  be  enemies  with  him." 

And  as  Zee  pointed  out  very  plainly,  "His  age 
has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  He  was  married  once, 
and  you  could  not  expect  them  to  un-bishop  him 
just  because  his  wife  died — I  suppose  bishops' 
wives  can  die  if  they  want  to,  like  anybody  else." 

And  as  Treasure  insisted,  "Doris  is  a  lovely 
thing,  in  spite  of  being  a  general,  and  why 
shouldn't  the  bishop  enjoy  a  manse  for  a 
change?" 

162 


THE  BISHOP 

At  all  events,  the  bishop  tore  himself  away 
from  the  manse  with  the  most  utter  and  apparent 
reluctance,  and  kept  coming  back  now  and  again 
in  a  way  that  was  flattering,  as  well  as  unprece- 
dented. And  Mr.  Artman  began  to  look  at  his 
oldest  daughter  with  puzzled  wondering  eyes, 
with  something  of  pain  in  them — and  the  pan- 
cakes got  better  right  along. 

"Isn't  it  funny  how  regular  bishops  are,  when 
you  get  to  know  them?"  Doris  said  to  Rosalie. 
"Why,  I  don't  see  any  objection  to  them  at  all 
— we  Presbyterians  might  have  a  few  of  our 
own."  Then  she  said,  "But  between  you  and  me, 
I  think  it  is  lots  more  fun  to  talk  to  people  you 
don't  understand,  and  do  not  know,  and — perfect 
strangers,  you  know,  who  are  very  friendly.  It 
is  so  much  more  thrilling." 

"But  how  could  one  be  a  perfect  stranger  and 
still  be  very  friendly?"  laughed  Rosalie. 

"Why,  very  easily  indeed.  You  don't  know; 
him,  who  he  is,  or  where  he  lives,  or  anything — • 
but  when  you  are  together  you  are  great  friends." 

"Who  are  you  talking  about  ?" 
163 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Why,  anybody.  Just  any  stranger  that  you 
do  not  know,  but  who  has  a  way  of  being  very 
intimate." 

"Doris,  you  are  dreaming,"  cried  Rosalie. 
"Whoever  heard  of  such  a  thing?  If  you  are 
Ultimate,  he  can't  be  a  stranger.  If  you  are  inti- 
mate, you've  got  to  know  each  other." 

"Oh,  not  necessarily.   Not  by  any  means." 

"Well,  for  my  part,  I  prefer  people  I  know 
and  like — people  who  sit  down  in  the  big  chair 
and  read  the  paper  and  act  human." 

Doris  laughed  gleefully.  "I  don't/'  she  said. 
"For  once  you  are  more  sensible  than  I  am.  I 
like  perfect  strangers  that  I  do  not  know  a  thing 
about — but  can  tell  from  their  eyes  that  they  are 
good — I  like  people  who  just  flit  around,  and 
come  and  go — like  wizards." 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    RUNAWAYS 

TREASURE  and  Zee  were  in  the  garage, 
studying  history  in  the  roomy  back  seat  of 
the  red  car. 

"Father  is  very  pettish  about  some  things," 
said  Zee,  suddenly  banging  the  covers  of  the  his- 
tory together.  "Why  in  the  world  does  he  al- 
ways say  we  are  too  young  to  drive?  He  taught 
Doris,  and  she  grips  the  wheel  like  mad — a  very 
unprofessional  thing  to  do,  everybody  says  so. 
And  he  taught  Rosalie,  and  she  goes  tearing 
along,  smiling  here  and  nodding  there,  and  nearly 
runs  over  dogs  and  wagons  and —  But  he  says 
we  are  too  young,  though  you  are  very  cautious, 
and  I  am  smart  for  my  age.  I  know  perfectly 
well  how  she  goes." 

They  dropped  their  books  on  the  floor  and 
clambered  over  into  the  front  seat,  Zee  at  the 
wheel. 

"First  you  turn  this  little  business,  and  then 
165 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

you  put  this  sparker  thing  here,  and  bang  down 
with  your  heel  on  that,  and  push  out  with  your 
left  foot,  and  pull  this  thing  back  into  low,  and 
give  it  the  gas,  and  away  you  go,  tralalalala." 

"That  is  right,"  said  Treasure.  "You  do  know, 
sure  enough.  I  have  watched  them  hundreds  of 
times." 

"So  have  I,"  said  Zee  in  a  discontented  voice. 
"But  that's  all  the  good  it  does.  They  won't  let 
us,  though  we  know  how,  perfectly  well.  Treas- 
ure, don't  you  think  maybe  father  would  let  us 
drive  if  we  could  prove  to  him  that  we  know 
how?  He  says  we  are  too  young  to  learn,  but  if 
we  show  him  we  have  learned  already  he  cer- 
tainly wouldn't  have  much  argument  left." 

"Father  is  rather  particular." 

"But  think  how  useful  it  would  be  if  we  knew 
how — then  if  anybody  should  get  sick,  or  die  in  a 
hurry,  we  could  rush  after  father  in  the  car,  and 
— I  am  sure  he  would  not  object,  if  we  could  just 
show  him.  Let's  practise  by  ourselves  a  little,  and 
then  he  won't  say  a  word.  Think  how  surprised 
he  will  be." 

166 


THE  RUNAWAYS 

"Maybe  you  could  not  stop  it." 

"Why,  you  just  turn  the  key,  that's  all.  It  is 
perfectly  simple.  A  child  could  do  it.  Look  out 
and  see  if  there  is  any  one  around,  will  you?  I 
know  I  can  do  it." 

Treasure  dutifully  looked,  and  no  one  was  in 
sight. 

"How  surprised  they  will  be.  Won't  we  have 
the  laugh  on  them  when  we  come  driving  up  to 
the  door?" 

So  Treasure  opened  the  door  of  the  garage 
and  got  in  beside  her  sister  again.  Zee  sat  up 
very  straight,  and  pursed  her  lips  together. 

"First,  turn  the  key." 

"Yes." 

Zee  turned  the  key. 

"Now  put  the  sparker  business  down  in  the 
middle." 

"Yes." 

Zee  put  it  down. 

"Step  on  the  starter." 

"Yes." 

Zee  stepped  on  it. 

167 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

This  produced  a  low  aimless  whirr,  quite  pow- 
erless. 

"Pull  up  that  little  flooder  thing,"  said  Treas- 
ure. "Father  always  does  that." 

Zee  pulled  it  to  the  tiptop,  and  banged  her  heel 
on  the  starter  again.  This  time  the  enticing  tug 
told  her  the  engine  had  caught,  and  was  ready 
for  action. 

"Push  with  the  left  foot  and  put  her  in  low," 
£aid  Zee,  between  her  teeth. 

She  found  it  took  quite  a  vicious  pull  on  the 
gears  to  "put  her  in  low."  And  the  instant  it 
clicked  into  place,  the  car  shot  forward  out  of 
the  garage  with  a  violent  pull  that  dashed  them 
against  the  seat  and  took  their  breath  away.  And 
there  was  a  tearing  and  crashing  of  wood — the 
garage  door  was  none  too  wide — 

"Father's  fault,"  shouted  Zee,  pulling  on  the 
wheel  for  dear  life.  "Just  splintered  a  little." 

"Slow  up,"  cried  Treasure. 

The  car  was  in  the  main  road  now,  swerving 
over  the  corner  to  the  right,  which  fortunately 
was  a  low  grassy  bank  with  no  curbing.  Zee, 

168 


"Why,  you  just  turn  the  key,  that's  all' 


THE  RUNAWAYS 

rocking  dizzily  in  her  seat,  moved  the  wheel  from 
side  to  side  at  such  a  furious  pace  that  she  kept 
the  car  almost  inside  the  road,  and  clear  of  the 
ditches  on  either  side. 

"Go  slow,"  begged  Treasure. 

"I  can't,"  cried  Zee.   "She  must  be  leaking." 

After  two  blocks  of  riotously  dangerous  rid- 
ing, Zee  remembered  that  if  she  shoved  with  her 
left  foot  it  did  something  to  stop  it — and  she 
shoved,  and  the  engine  lifted,  and  the  car  slowed 
down. 

She  turned  a  white  anxious  face  toward  Treas- 
ure. 

"That  was  some  speed,"  she  gasped. 

"Watch  the  road,  Zee.  You  had  the  gas  thing 
in  the  middle  instead  of  the  sparker  thing—" 

"Oh,  sure  enough,  wasn't  that  silly?"  Zee  put 
the  hand  feeder  in  its  proper  place  and  prepared 
to  start  again. 

"I  know  how  to  drive  this  car — I  know  how, 
and  I  will  do  it,"  she  said  between  her  teeth. 

She  put  it  into  low  again,  and  started  once 
more,  very  slowly. 

169 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Put  it  into  second  now,"  suggested  Treasure. 

Zee  shoved  the  gear  shift  grimly  forward — 
into  reverse — and  there  was  a  grinding  of  wheels 
and  a  curious  sound  of  stripping  gears  that  would 
have  broken  the  heart  of  an  older  driver. 

Zee  discovered  her  mistake,  and  remedied  it 
quickly,  pulling  the  gear  into  low  once  more, 
ready  for  a  fresh  start. 

"Oh,  Zee,  let  me  drive,"  begged  Treasure.  "I 
am  sure  I  can  do  it." 

By  rare  good  fortune,  Zee  succeeded  in  getting 
it  into  second  gear,  and  finally,  with  a  tearing 
racket,  into  high,  and  leaned  back  in  her  seat. 

"This  is  something  like,  now,"  she  panted, 
releasing  her  scarlet  lip  from  between  her  teeth. 

"The  fender  is  all  bent,"  mourned  Treasure. 

"Oh,  father'll  fix  it.  See  how  well  we're  going 
now." 

Treasure  said  nothing.  They  were  not  yet 
home,  and  there  was  a  wagon  coming  toward 
them. 

Zee  swung  the  car  to  the  right  to  pass  the 
wagon — too  far — she  was  fairly  in  the  ditch  at 
170 


THE  RUNAWAYS 

the  side — with  a  wild  turn  of  the  wheel  they 
bumped  into  the  road  again,  the  fender  banging 
the  back  wheel  of  the  wagon. 

"Hay,  you  blithering — "  shouted  the  man  an- 
grily, and  then,  seeing  their  predicament,  he 
pulled  off  to  the  side  of  the  road  and  turned  about 
in  his  seat  staring  after  them. 

Zee,  panic-stricken  at  the  collision,  lost  her 
wits  completely,  and  couldn't  remember  how  to 
stop  it — but  kept  jamming  desperately  on  the 
gas  feeder,  harder  and  harder,  swinging  along 
the  road,  swaying  from  side  to  side,  while  Treas- 
ure, with  one  long  cry  of  agony  slid  into  the  bot- 
tom of  the  car  and  clasped  her  hands  over  her 
ears. 

The  car  dashed  madly  on,  and  between  bursts 
Zee  pulled  everything  in  sight  and  pushed  every- 
thing she  could  find — but  that  car  was  a  demon 
— it  went  over  hills  and  through  ditches  like  a 
thing  possessed.  It  swung  around  wagons,  and 
ran  down  a  flock  of  chickens,  and — oh,  kindly 
Providence,  which  watches  over  straying  preacher 
bodies — of  its  own  free  will,  though  guided,  of 
171 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

course,  by  a  friendly  predestination — the  car 
went  slower,  and  slower,  with  a  funny  choking 
powerless  sound  quite  unlike  its  natural  brisk 
chug,  and  presently  Zee's  scattered  wits  returned 
to  her.  She  turned  the  key,  and  the  car  stopped. 

Treasure,  sobbing  pitifully,  untangled  herself 
from  the  gears,  and  stumbled  out  of  the  car. 

"I — drove — it,"  quivered  Zee,  and  she  opened 
the  door  and  stepped  out — falling  limply  on  the 
ground. 

Treasure,  forgetting  her  own  plight,  ran  to 
Zee's  assistance. 

"Nothing  at  all's  the  matter,"  stammered  Zee, 
smiling  pluckily.  "Just  wobbly,  that's  all — can't 
stand  on  myself." 

So  Treasure  sat  down  beside  her  in  the  road, 
and  they  had  a  heart-restoring  cry  in  each  other's 
tender  arms,  the  dust  of  the  road  mingling  with 
their  bitter  tears  and  leaving  tell-tale  tracks  upon 
their  sorry  faces.  Zee  recovered  first. 

"Crazy  old  thing,11  she  said  with  a  vicious  little: 
Icick  at  the  bent  fender.    "I  always  said  Doris 
should  have  chosen  the  cow." 
172 


THE  RUNAWAYS 

"What  shall  we  do  now?"  asked  Treasure 
helplecsly. 

"I  am  going  to  sit  right  here  until  father  comes 
and  finds  us.  Oh,  Treasure,  you'd  better  drive 
it  off  to  the  side  of  the  road — and — »" 

"Who — me?  Not  on  your  life.  I  won't  toucH 
it.  It  is  bewitched." 

"Somebody  will  run  into  it  then.  Let's 
push  it." 

Treasure  had  serious  objections  even  to  that 
form  of  locomotion,  for  she  felt  in  her  inmost 
soul  that  the  only  way  to  keep  that  red  demon 
stopped  was  never  to  give  it  a  start.  But  as  Zee 
was  insistent,  she  finally  consented  to  get  behind 
and  give  a  grudging  push.  Due,  however,  to  the 
fact  that  it  was  still  in  gear,  and  the  brakes  were 
set,  they  could  not  budge  it.  So  they  went  off  to 
the  side  of  the  road  where  it  could  not  fall  on 
them  if  anybody  did  run  into  it  and  waited. 

After  a  time  a  car  came  along,  passed  by, 
slowed  up  and  stopped.  The  driver  leaned  over 
the  door  of  his  car  and  asked  pleasantly: 

"Are  you  in  trouble,  girls?  Can  I  help  you?'* 
173 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Oh,  no,  thank  you,  we  are  waiting  for 
father,"  said  Zee  primly. 

The  driver  regarded  them  curiously.  "Don't 
you  think  you'd  better  pull  off  to  the  side  of  the 
road  a  little  ?  Pretty  narrow  passing  there." 

The  girls  looked  at  the  road  in  surprise.  "Why, 
so  it  is.  Isn't  that  too  bad  ?" 

"Can  you  drive  off  to  the  side  ?" 

"No,  indeed,  father  does  not  allow  us  to 
drive." 

"I'll  give  you  a  push,"  he  said  very  obligingly, 
and  came  at  once  to  their  assistance.  He  frowned 
a  little  when  he  saw  the  car  in  gear,  and  the 
brakes  set,  but  he  released  them  without  com- 
ment, and  the  girls  helping  bravely,  the  disgraced 
red  car  was  moved  out  of  the  main  road. 

"Shall  I  tow  you  back  to  town?" 

The  girls  winced  visibly.  Be  towed  home  in 
Disgrace — rather  would  they  sit  there  and  freeze 
and  starve  and  die  of  hunger  and  thirst  forever. 

"Oh,  no,  thank  you.  We'll  just  wait  for 
father." 

"Where  is  your  father?" 
174 


THE  RUNAWAYS 

"He  isn't  here  just  now,"  said  Zee  faintly. 

So  the  man  drove  slowly  away,  looking  back 
now  and  then.  The  girls,  in  spite  of  the  dust,  did 
not  sit  in  the  car.  They  would  not  trust  them- 
selves alone  in  that  car  under  any  circumstances. 
Instead  they  went  soberly  up  the  bank  and  sat 
down  again,  side  by  side.  Once  in  a  while  Zee 
wiped  her  pale  brow  wearily. 

"Such  a  life,"  she  muttered  once. 

"Here  comes  something  now,"  said  Treasure, 
looking  hopefully  down  the  road  toward  town. 
"Maybe  it  is  father." 

"Horseback  rider." 

"I  hope  he  does  not  offer  to  tow  us  home." 

"If  he  does,  I  shall  tell  him  to  mind  his  own 
business." 

As  the  rider  drew  near,  the  girls  leaned  for- 
ward and  studied  his  features. 

"He  will  laugh  at  us,"  said  Treasure  sadly. 
"That  is  worse  than  offering  to  tow  us  home.  It 
is  that  horribly  sarcastic  Curious  Cat  that  kept 
the  Crab  from  arre-sting  us  when  we  trespassed 
on  his  ugly  old  ditch." 

175 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

Zee  flipped  over  on  the  ground  and  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands.  "I  will  not  look  at  him.  Tell 
him  I  am  dead,  tell  him —  Tell  him  anything,  but 

I  can  not  let  that  hateful  old  thing  look  at  me 
and  grin." 

"Zee,"  begged  Treasure,  "sit  up  and  be  de- 
cent. I  can't  talk  to  him.  Sit  up,  and  help  me." 

Zee  was  obdurate.  So  Treasure,  determined 
not  to  face  the  Curious  Cat  without  support, 


the  landscape. 

The  rider  drew  up  beside  the  car,  and  stopped 
his  horse.  He  looked  intently  at  the  two  girls, 
who  saw  him  not — except  from  the  very  tip  tails 
of  their  eyes.  Then  he  examined  the  car,  whis- 
tling cheerfully — and  his  whistle  was  more  ag- 
gravating than  his  laughter,  if  such  a  thing  could 
be.  He  got  off  his  horse  presently  and  slipped 
the  bridle  over  a  fence  post.  Then  he  carefully 
inspected  the  bent  fenders,  and  looked  at  the  en- 
gine. And  then — wasn't  he  the  most  infuriating 
thing  you  ever  saw  in  your  life? — from  the 
pocket  of  his  riding  coat  he  pulled  a  package  of 
176 


THE  RUNAWAYS 

milk  chocolate,  and  sauntered  over  to  the  bank 
where  the  girls  still  sat,  oblivious  of  his  presence. 
He  flung  himself  on  the  ground  near  them  and 
began  nibbling  the  chocolate. 

Treasure's  lips  trembled  with  the  shame  of  It. 
Zee  twisted  the  toes  of  her  shoes  into  the  ground 
in  impotent  fury.  The  Curious  Cat  ate  deliber- 
ately, soul  fully,  complacently,  and  tossed  his  hat 
to  the  ground,  laying  his  head  comfortably  on 
his  arm,  his  face  toward  the  girls. 

And  to  add  to  the  insult  of  his  presence  he 
began  humming  that  idiotic  little  ditty  about 
"two  6abes  in  the  woods"  in  a  soft  sentimental 
tone. 

Zee  stood  it  as  long  as  she  could.  Then  she  sat 
up,  seeming  to  blink  the  sleep  from  her  bright 
eyes. 

"Why,  Treasure —  Why,  I  did  go  to  sleep, 
didn't  I  ?"  Then  she  saw  him,  apparently  for  the 
first  time.  "Why,  how  do  you  do?"  she  said 
brightly.  "Where  did  you  come  from?  I  drove 
and  drove  until  I  was  so  tired — I  couldn't  stand 
it,  and  so  we  stopped  to  rest" 
177, 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

~v_ 

She  held  out  a  cordial  hand,  and  he  took  it 
gravely.  Then  Treasure  turned  upon  them,  and 
said,  "Why,  you  here?  I  was — enjoying  that — > 
beautiful  view." 

"Yes,  I  noticed  that  you  were  wrapped  up  in 
it.  Had  you  a  pleasant  ride  ?" 

"Oh,  lovely.  But  I  am  not  used  to  driving,  and 
I  got  so  tired.  I  don't  believe  I  can  ever  get  the 
thing  home." 

"Maybe  your  sister  can — " 

"Oh,  Treasure  will  not  drive.  She  is  afraid  of 
motors." 

"Maybe  I  can  take  you  home." 

"Oh,  we  want  to  walk.  We  are  so  stiff  from 
riding.  But  won't  you  please  take  the  car  in — • 
we  feel  like  walking  ourselves — it  will  do  us 
good." 

He  looked  at  them  keenly.  "Do  you  want  some 
chocolate  ?" 

The  girls  accepted  it  gratefully. 

"Suppose  we  go  on  to  the  Haunted  House,  and 
let  the  old  grouch  give  us  some  tea  ?  I  feel  rather 
weak.   Don't  you?"  he  suggested  finally. 
178 


THE  RUNAWAYS 

"Very,"  they  said  with  sincerity. 

"But  father  will  find  out — I  mean — they  will 
worry  about  us.  We  have  been  gone — quite  a 
while,"  protested  Treasure. 

"He  will  not  worry.  He  knows  nobody  would 
hurt  nice  little  preacher  girls  like  you.  I  am  will^ 
ing — more  than  willing — to  take  the  car  home, 
but  I've  got  to  find  a  place  to  leave  my  horse, 
and  I've  got  to  have  some  tea.  Is  it  a  bargain  of 
not  ?  You  come  with  me  for  tea,  I  take  you  home 
— and  I  will  try  to  sneak  you  in  the  back  way  so 
your  father  will  not  catch  you.  But  no  tea,  no 
sneak." 

Zee  stood  up.  "Treasure,  you  may  sit  here  and 
be  ministerial  if  you  like.  I  want  some  tea." 

"That  is  something  like.  Now,  you  drive  the 
car  down  the  road  to  tht  rustic  gate,  and — " 

"Who,  me?  I  am  tired  of  driving.  I  guess  I 
won't  go  after  all." 

"Well,  then  you  girls  must  sit  in  the  back  seat 
and  lead  the  horse.  I  shall  drive  slowly." 

"I  feel  more  like  walking.  I  do  not  want  to 
ride." 

179 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"It  is  a  mile  and  a  half,  and  you've  got  to  get 
home  some  time.  Don't  be  silly.  I  know  how  to 
handle  a  car." 

So  in  quivering  fear  the  girls  stepped  in  and 
he  gave  Zee  the  bridle.  Then  he  started  the  car 
• — the  treacherous,  ungrateful  thing! — it  went  off 
as  smoothly  and  gently  as  a  perfect  lady.  How 
tenderly  Zee  thought  at  that  moment  of  the  Jer- 
sey they  did  not  choose.  Down  the  road  they 
went  very  slowly,  then  up  a  long  winding  trail 
among  the  trees  by  the  creek  to  the  Haunted 
House,  an  old-fashioned  rambling  building  with 
vines  and  flowers  running  riot  in  every  direction. 

"Maybe  he  will  not  like  it.  He  has  a  terrible 
disposition,  you  know." 

"We  shall  charm  him.  He  and  the  house  are 
haunted,  but  fifty  cents  will  enslave  them  both." 

"Fifty  cents  would  buy  two  gallons  of  gas,'9 
whispered  Zee,  shocked  at  the  recklessness,  but 
even  her  frankness  did  not  extend  to  the  point  of 
protesting  at  the  extravagance  of  a  stranger — • 
especially  when  she  needed  tea. 

The  Corduroy  Crab  greeted  them  as  uncon- 
180 


THE  RUNAWAYS 

cernedly  as  though  they  came  by  invitation,  and 
took  the  bridle  from  Zee's  hand. 

"Sir,  we  had  a  sad  accident,"  said  the  Curious 
Cat  in  a  respectful  voice.  "We  are  thirsty,  tired, 
and — much  wiser.  May  we  have  a  cup  of  tea  on 
the  porch  in  a  hurry?"  He  slipped  a  half-dollar 
into  the  man's  willing  hand  as  he  spoke. 

The  Corduroy  Crab  seemed  not  at  all  sur- 
1  prised.  "Of  course,"  he  said  briefly,  and  led  the 
'horse  away. 

"Now  there's  a  gentleman,"  said  the  Curious 
Cat  appreciatively.  "Took  my  money  like  a — 
preacher." 

"What  do  you  mean — like  a  preacher?"  de- 
manded Zee  resentfully. 

But  the  Curious  Cat  did  not  seem  to  hear,  fof 
he  was  piling  soft  cushions  into  wide  porch  chairs 
;where  the  girls  might  sit  in  comfort 

A  little  later  a  black  serving  man  came  out  and 
pulled  a  small  table  from  a  corner  of  the  porch, 
arranging  it  deftly  with  doilies,  and  in  less  than 
five  minutes  the  girls  were  eating  chicken  sand- 
wiches and  drinking  tea — to  be  sure,  they  were 
181 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

not  allowed  to  drink  tea  at  home,  but  Zee  said 
truly  that  their  nerves  required  something  out  of 
the  ordinary.  And  there  was  a  small  silver  basket 
of  chocolates  on  the  table — 

"Isn't  that  lucky?"  said  the  Curious  Cat,  eying 
the  candy  greedily.  "It  is  my  one  and  only  weak- 
ness. Apart  from  chocolate  I  am  free  from 
worldly  affectations.  But  chocolate — I  eat  it  with 
every  meal,  and  take  a  piece  to  bed  at  night. 
Without  it  I  am  become  as  a  ravening  wolf  and 
a — a  thirsting  camel.  It  does  seem  rather  a  re- 
fined and  ladylike  accomplishment  for  one  as 
rough  and  rude  as  I — one  of  the  eccentricities  of 
Nature,  who  played  me  many  pranks." 

"Yes,"  said  Treasure  politely. 

"However  do  you  suppose  the  Corduroy; 
Crab—" 

"Zee!" 

"The  what?" 

"Oh,  excuse  me —  He  won't  tell,  Treasure. 
We  call  him  the  Corduroy  Crab  because  he  was 
so  disagreeable,  you  know.  I  was  just — " 

"Pardon  the  interruption — but  do  you  mind 
182 


JHE  RUNAWAYS 

telling  me  by  what  particular  form  of  endear-! 
ment  you  designate  me?" 

"The — the  Curious  Cat,'*  said  Zee,  though 
Treasure  kicked  her  smartly  under  the  table. 
"Because  you  were  so  cattish  to  us,  making  fun 
of  us,  and  laughing.  Very  catty  thing  to  do.  And 
we  added  the  Curious  because  you  really  are  aw-< 
fully — queer,  you  know." 

"And  what  were  you  wondering  about  the 
Crab?" 

"I  was  just  wondering  how  he  comes  to  have 
things  fixed  so  lovely?  It  is  wonderful  here.  It 
used  to  be  all  tumbly  and  crazy,  and  things  grow- 
ing everywhere,  and  little  funny  animals  and 
bugs  shooting  around  in  every  direction — it  was 
awful.  Father  brought  us  once  because  we  had 
to  write  a  theme  in  school — and  we  couldn't  sleep 
for  two  nights." 

*'It  still  looks  wild,"  said  Treasure  softly.  "But 
it  is  such  a  lovely  wildness — all  the  ugly  grime 
is  gone,  and  the  beauty  of  it  is  more  beautiful 
than  ever.  And  it  doesn't  make  you  shiver  now 
— it  only  makes  you  sad." 
183 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"It  does  not  make  me  sad,"  said  Zee.  "I  am 
never  sad  when  there  are  chicken  sandwiches. 
And  this  china —  Well,  I  know  it  is  better  than 
ours  at  the  manse,  and  it  was  given  to  us  by 
our  last  Christian  Endeavor,  so  you  may  know 
it  is  very  nice  indeed — but  this  is  better  still — and 
I  believe  to  goodness  these  are  regular  silver 
spoons.  And  do  you  suppose  the  colored  man  is 
his  servant?  And  hasn't  he  any  wife?  And  do 
you  think  he  bought  this  place  ?  I  wonder  where 
he  got  the  money  ?  And  why  does  he  stay  out  of 
sight — he  ought  to  come  and  eat  with  us,  since 
we  are  company?" 

The  Curious  Cat  waved  his  arms  helplessly.  "I 
am  trying  to  bring  a  spirit  from  the  air  to  answer 
your  questions.  But  it  does  not  work.  I  am 
afraid  I  ate  too  many  sandwiches.  I  never  can 
do  my  enchantments  when  I  eat  more  than  six 
sandwiches  at  a  sitting." 

"I  think  we  ought  to  go,"  said  Treasure.  "I 
am  afraid  we  are  not  just  welcome.  Wouldn't  it 
be  lovely  to  lie  around  here  a  whole  day,  Zee? 
But  we  have  to  go." 

184 


THE  RUNAWAYS 

"Can  you  truly  sneak  us  in  without  any  one 
catching  us?" 

"We  are  going  to  try." 

So  they  drove  hurriedly  home  to  the  manse 
again,  and  the  girls  said  good-by  to  their  Curious 
Cat  and  felt  that  after  all  he  had  his  good  points. 
He  did  not  say  a  word  about  the  shattered  door 
of  the  barn,  and  the  girls  did  not  wonder  until 
he  had  li  f ted  his  hat  and  disappeared  how  he  was 
going  to  get  back  to  his  horse  again. 

They  closed  the  doors  of  the  barn  sadly  and 
went  into  the  house. 

How  quiet  and  cool  and  beautiful  the  manse 
was  that  afternoon.  They  walked  slowly,  appre* 
ciatively  through  every  room.  Doris,  sitting  in 
the  bay-window  with  the  eternal  mending,  was 
like  a  glorious  madonna,  and  they  put  their  arms 
around  her  and  kissed  her  tenderly,  as  girls  re- 
turned from  a  long  absence.  But  she  took  it  very 
placidly.  They  saw  Rosalie  lying  on  her  bed  up- 
stairs, reading,  and  eating  an  apple.  How  pretty 
and  dear  Rosalie  was.  They  stood  in  the  door- 
way and  looked  at  her  almost  worship  fully.  Out- 
185 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

side  their  father's  study  they  stood  a  long  time, 
thinking,  but  went  at  last  to  their  own  room  and 
closed  the  door. 

A  little  later  they  heard  their  father  at  the 
telephone,  asking  questions — but  it  was  aimless 
conversation,  they  could  make  nothing  of  it. 
How  strange  it  was  that  they  had  not  been 
missed.  Such  wonderful  things  had  happened, 
life  had  been  spared  to  them  by  less  than  a  frac- 
tion of  an  inch — and  here  were  their  loved  ones, 
Doris  mending,  Rosalie  eating  apples,  father 
writing  a  sermon — as  serenely  as  though  two 
dear  young  daughters  had  not  just  been  returned 
to  them  from  the  shadow  of  the  grave. 

They  sat  in  their  room,  waiting,  talking  not  at 
all.  After  a  while  Doris  called  them  to  supper, 
and  they  took  their  places  in  subdued  silence. 
What  a  wonderful  way  father  had  of  asking  the 
blessing — why,  every  word  of  it  seemed  to  call 
Hown  a  benediction  on  every  one  at  the  table. 
And  how  good  the  dinner  was — they  were  not 
hungry,  but  it  was  delicious  food,  unbelievably 
186 


THE  RUNAWAYS 

well  cooked.  And  Doris  in  the  big  kitchen  apron 
was  exquisite. 

When  they  reached  dessert,  Zee  rose  to  the 
height  of  public  confession. 

"Father,  Treasure  and  I — and  principally  I, 
for  I  did  it — were  very  naughty.  We  took  the 
car  out  of  the  garage,  and  smashed  the  door  get- 
ting it  out,  and  we  drove  into  the  country  and 
nearly  killed  horses  and  wagons  and  autos  and 
ran  into  ditches  and  bent  the  fenders  and  ran 
down  a  lot  of  chickens,  and  got  stuck,  and  a  man 
brought  us  home.  We  are  very  sorry." 

How  calmly  they  took  it ! — a  climactic,  criminal 
thing  like  that — after  all,  they  were  rather  a  sor- 
did family. 

Father  looked  at  the  girls  soberly,  noted  their 
pale  faces,  the  dark  circles  under  their  weary 
eyes. 

"I  know  it,"  he  said  at  last  gravely. 

"Oh,  father,  you  knew  it — and  you  didn't  try 
to  find  us?"  There  was  pain  and  reproach  in 
Treasure's  voice. 

187 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"I  knew  all  that  was  happening,"  he  said 
quickly,  with  a  reassuring  smile  at  Treasure. 
"Mr.  Smelton  telephoned  that  he  helped  you  to 
the  side  of  the  road — that  was  the  first  we  knew 
of  it.  And  a  little  later  some  one  else — I  did  not 
just  get  the  name — but  he  telephoned  that  he 
was  giving  you  some  tea,  and  you  were  quite 
safe,  and  he  was  going  to  bring  you  home." 

"It  was  that  Curious  Cat —  You  know,  Doris, 
the  one  who  made  the  Corduroy  Crab  be  good 
to  us—" 

"The  Curious  Cat?  Oh,  father,  what  was  his 
name?"  cried  Doris,  leaning  way  over  the  table 
in  her  eagerness. 

"It  sounded  like — Saunders — something  like 
Saunders — " 

"Saunders,  nothing,"  cried  Zee.  "Saunders  is 
the  Corduroy  Crab — we  heard  that.  Oh,  it  must 
have  been  him  who  phoned — " 

"He." 

"Yes,  he.  Because  the  Curious  Cat  was  not 
away  long  enough — he  just  left  a  minute — to  see 
about  the  horse." 

188 


THE  RUNAWAYS 

"And  then  he  told  Saunders  to  telephone — " 

"Yes,  of  course." 

Doris  sat  back.  "The  old  torment.  How  can 
anybody  find  out  about  such  a  curious  old — Curi- 
ous Cat?"  she  wondered  to  herself. 

In  answer  to  her  questions,  the  girls  could  tell 
little. 

"He  does  not  live  at  the  Haunted  House,  just 
the  Corduroy  Crab — and  the — the — " 

"The  Courteous  Coon,"  cried  Zee.  "Let's  stick 
to  our  harmony." 

"They  live  there,  and  the  Curious  Cat  lives 
somewhere  very  near — and  things  are  lovely  at 
the  Haunted  House,  there  are  flowers  on  the 
porch,  and  pictures,  and  curtains — did  you  ever 
hear  of  such  a  thing?  Soft  brown  curtains  of 
silk  rubbery  stuff — and  it  is  lovely.  And  the 
vines  are  all  red  and  gold,  and  the  ground  is  a 
mass  of  fallen  leaves." 

"Father,  please  tell  us  the  punishment.  It  gives 
you  such  an — empty  feeling  to  have — unknown 
punishments  hanging  over  your  head." 

"Oh,  the  punishment,"  he  said,  and  started 
189 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

promptly  for  the  door.   "That  is  why  we  have  a 
General.   Leave  it  to  her." 

The  girls  turned  appealing  faces  toward  Doris. 
"Tell  us,  General,"  they  said,  in  the  tone  of  mar- 
tyrdom. 

"You  can  not  ride  in  the  car  again  for  three 
whole  weeks.  When  the  rest  of  us  drive,  you 
two  must  walk.  And  that  is  all — for  you  have 
had  quite  a  little  punishment  already." 

The  girls  thanked  her  warmly,  and  went  out. 
In  the  hall  they  looked  at  each  other  lovingly, 
and  smiled. 

"Isn't  that  ducky?"  said  Zee.  "It  is  not  any 
punishment  at  all.  Somehow  since  this  afternoon 
the  smell  of  the  engine  makes  me  seasick." 

Treasure  quivered.  "Ducky?  Oh,  Zee,  it  is 
delicious.  Suppose  she  had  made  us  ride  all  day 
to-morrow.  I  couldn't  have  stood  it." 

"Anyhow,  I  guess  I  proved  that  I  can  drive  the  ; 
car,"  said  Zee  stoutly.    "Only,  of  course,  since 
father  does  not  wish  me  to,  I  shall  never  think  of 
doing  it  until  I  am  older." 


CHAPTER  X 

MR.    WIZARD 

DORIS  had  taken  a  sudden  and  unaccount- 
able predilection  for  morning  strolls.  The 
family  did  not  understand  it,  for  she  had  always 
been  partial  to  her  final  morning  nap.  She  did 
not  neglect  her  work,  no  indeed,  she  was  getting 
up  early,  very  ridiculously  early — at  five  o'clock ! 
' — and  then  going  around  for  a  jaunt  all  by  her- 
self wherever  fancy  prompted. 

To  herself  Doris  admitted  candidly  that  she 
wanted  to  see  that  awfully  aggravating  Curious 
Cat,  as  she  called  him  to  herself,  though  she  re- 
proved the  twins  very  seriously  for  the  disre- 
spect fulness  of  it.  But  she  did  not  see  him.  She 
walked  east,  west,  north  and  south,  but  he  re- 
mained hidden  from  view. 

She  did  not  forget  that  twice  he  had  appeared 
to  the  girls  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  erstwhile 
Haunted  House.  But  it  was  too  far — she  could 
191 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

/lot  walk  there,  however  much  she  wished  to  do 
so.  Then  came  a  sudden  idea.  She  would  take  a 
morning  drive,  instead  of  a  stroll — and  she 
might,  if  necessary,  walk  along  the  creek  her- 
self in  search  of  wild  flowers —  Of  course,  it 
was  too  late  for  wild  flowers,  far  too  late — but 
anyhow  one  never  could  tell  what  one  might  find. 

So  the  very  next  morning,  dimply  with  the 
delight  of  it,  she  took  the  car  and  drove  gleefully 
out  to  the  lovely  hickory  grove,  and  ran  the  car 
deliberately  up  beside  the  road,  and  waited.  No 
Mr.  Wizard  gloomed  on  the  horizon.  Not  even 
a  Corduroy  Crab  came  crashing  through  the 
fallen  leaves  which  blanketed  the  ground  around 
her.  So  she  got  out  of  the  car,  climbed  through 
the  fence,  and  sauntered  comfortably  along  by 
the  creek,  under  the  big  bare  trees.  Still  no  an- 
gry keeper  dashed  out  upon  her.  She  took  small 
pebbles  and  tossed  them  into  the  trees  to  see  the 
squirrels  go  scampering — nobody  minded  in  the 
least.  It  was  very  annoying — like  everything  else 
connected  with  that  Curious  Cat. 

She  was  very  near  the  Haunted  House  now,  sp 
192 


MR.  WIZARD 

near  she  could  not  go  any  farther.  Even  a  wilful 
and  deliberate  trespasser  could  not  walk  right  into 
the  very  doors  of  an  irate  proprietor. 

She  was  quite  vexed.  Why  did  he  claim  to  be 
a  wizard,  and  boast  of  fairy  powers,  if  he  could 
not  see  there  was  a  damsel  out  in  search  of  him? 
She  turned  and  walked  briskly  back  down  the 
creek  toward  the  road.  Putting  her  hands  on  the 
top  rail  of  the  low  fence,  she  vaulted  lightly  over, 
and  cried  out  in  surprise  and  fear. — The  car  was 
gone. 

She  had  left  it  there,  not  fifteen  minutes  ago. 
She  could  not  be  dreaming — there  were  the  broad 
smooth  tracks  in  the  dust.  Some  one  had  stolen 
the  dear,  darling  little  car. 

"Now  every  one  will  say  I  should  have  chosen 
the  cow,"  she  thought  bitterly. 

Doris  was  several  miles  from  home,  and  it 
was  breakfast  time.  They  would  know  that  she 
was  out  for  her  silly  morning  walk — and  when 
father  found  the  car  gone  it  would  be  apparent 
she  had  gone  for  a  drive  instead.  Oh,  dear — it 
was  a  long  way,  and  very  hot,  and  dusty — and 
193 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

she  was  so  unhappy.  And  it  was  only  natural  to 
blame  it  all  on  that  perfectly  disgusting1  Curious 
Cat,  who  should  have  been  there,  and  was  not. 

Because  she  was  angry,  the  first  mile  passed 
quickly.  But  neither  anger  nor  grief  shortened 
the  second  mile,  nor  the  third,  nor  the  fourth. 
Then  she  got  a  ride  with  a  friendly  farmer,  who 
openly  marveled  at  her  being  in  the  country  so 
early  in  the  morning.  But  Doris  was  not  com- 
municative. They  were  preachers,  of  course,  but: 
if  they  wanted  to  be  in  the  country,  they  could 
be — and  the  whole  neighborhood  did  not  need 
to  know  the  wherefore.  At  eight  o'clock  she 
marched  grimly  into  the  manse,  and  found  the 
family  at  breakfast. 

"Oh,  you  runaway,"  laughed  Rosalie.  "I  had 
a  terrible  time  getting  breakfast.  Aren't  you  a 
good  housekeeper — not  a  bit  of  flour  in  the  house 
and  the  cream  sour." 

"Give  me  coffee,"  said  Doris,  sitting  down 
wearily  and  resting  her  elbows  on  the  table. 
"Black  coffee,  strong  coffee,  lots  of  it,  no  sugar, 
and  no  cream," 

194 


MR.  WIZARD 

"Why,  you  poor  dear,  you  are  tired,"  said 
Rosalie  in  her  softest,  most  gurgly  voice.  "Let 
me  make  some  fresh  toast.'* 

"No  toast — just  coffee — but  lots  of  it." 

"I  always  said  it  was  silly,  walking  around 
without  breakfast.  I  told  you  that  before.  You1 
look  positively  yellow." 

"Dust." 

"At  the  least,  you  should  choose  a  cool  and 
shady  street,"  said  her  father.  "You  look  jaded, 
dear.  I  am  afraid  it  is  too  much  for  you." 

"I  am  jaded.  Father,  my  poor  dear  father,  be 
prepared  for  a  bitter  blow." 

"What  is  it?" 

"The  car,  the  beautiful  red  car  that  dear  Mr. 
Davison  left  you,  is  stolen." 

"Stolen!" 

"The  car?" 

"Oh,  Doris,  I'll  bet  you  had  a  wreck." 

"What  happened?" 

"I  went  for  a  drive  instead  of  a  walk,  and  I 
kft  the  car  just  to  walk  through  the  woods  a  lit- 
tle— and  when  I  came  back  it  was  gone." 
195 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Gone!" 

"Oh,  Doris!  You  would  not  let  us  ride  for 
three  weeks,  and  now  it  is  gone  and  we  can  never 
ride  again — the  dear  darling  precious  little  car." 

"Never  mind,  girls,  if  it  is  gone,  no  use  to 
worry." 

"Every  one  said  we  were  foolish  not  to  take 
the  cow  in  the  first  place." 

"Oh,  Rosalie,  please  don't  throw  that  up  to 
me,"  said  Doris  tearfully.  "I  loved  it  too  much, 
I  was  just  crazy  about  it,  I  thought  of  it  day  and 
night.  Maybe  it  is  a  punishment,  I  suppose  it  is. 
And  it  is  all  my  fault,  for  I  did  adore  it." 

"Oh,  no,  Doris.  I  am  sure  that  had  nothing  to 
do  with  it.  You  know  we  preachers  do  not  have 
many  of  these  physical,  sensational  joys — and 
the  car  has  been  an  ecstasy  for  every  one  of  us. 
I  am  sure  an  understanding  Providence  has  re- 
joiced in  our  pleasure,  and  not  begrudged  us  a 
second  of  it." 

"Why  should  our  car  be  stolen?"  wailed  Zee. 
"Why  couldn't  it  have  been  a  banker's,  who  could 
196 


MR.  WIZARD 

buy  another?  Or  a  bad  man's,  who  did  not  de- 
serve one  anyhow?  Or  a  sick  man's,  who 
couldn't  enjoy  it?  Why  is  it  always  we  preach- 
ers who  get  the  raw  deal?" 

"Oh,  Zee!" 

"I  had  several  perfectly  lovely  things  I  wanted 
to  do  with  the  car,"  said  Rosalie  regretfully.  "I 
am  sorry  I  put  them  off  from  day  to  day." 

Treasure  slipped  away  from  the  table  and  out 
of  the  room.  She  had  uttered  no  protest.  She 
had  made  no  complaint.  But  she  crept  sadly  out 
to  the  garage — she  wanted  to  sit  down  in  the 
dust  where  the  dear  red  car  had  been  of  yore, 
and  weep  over  the  spot,  as  at  the  passing  of  a 
dear  companion. 

She  opened  the  door  with  hands  that  trembled 
— and  stopped  aghast.  Her  lips  parted  several 
times,  and  she  uttered  a  curious  sputtering  gasp. 
The  red  car  was  right  there  where  it  belonged — • 
it  was  not  stolen  at  all.  Doris  was  out  of  her 
mind! 

She  walked  slowly,  dimly  back  to  the  manse, 
197 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

her  eyes  swimming.  Poor  Doris  —  she  hacl 
walked  too  far  and  too  fast.  Treasure  entered 
the  dining-room,  pale,  with  eyes  still  clouded. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  Doris  was  saying.  "I  know! 
you  are  all  very  angry  at  me,  and  I  do  not  blame: 
you." 

"Where  did  you  leave  the  car?" 

Doris  blushed.  She  could  not  admit  to  keen- 
witted Zee  that  she  had  deliberately  gone  to  theii^ 
Haunted  House  in  the  hickory  grove. 

"Oh,  out  in  the  country  about  six  miles  —  » 
along  the  Emery  Road." 

Treasure  threw  out  both  hands,  and  her  lips 
parted  spasmodically. 

"She  is  having  a  nightmare,"  said  Zee,  staring 
at  her  sister. 

"Is  the  garage  gone,  too?"  demanded  Rosalie. 

Treasure's   lips   parted   again,   but   no   sound 


"Shake  her,  father.    She  is  having  a  spell  or 
something." 

"Out  of  her  mind,"  said  Treasure,  at  last,  with 
a  violent  effort. 

198 


MR.  WIZARD 

The  family  gazed  upon  her,  speechless. 

"Car's  in  the  garage,"  she  stammered.  "Isn't 
gone — at  all.'* 

With  one  accord  they  arose  from  their  chairs 
and  made  a  united  dash  on  the  garage.  It  was 
quite  true,  the  car  was  there,  shiny  and  serene, 
in  its  accustomed  place.  They  gazed  on  it  si- 
lently as  Treasure  had  done,  and  then  they  turned 
to  Doris,  wide-eyed  and  horrified. 

"You're  off,"  said  Zee  succinctly. 

"It  was  a  dream,  dearest,"  said  Rosalie,  slip- 
ping a  tender  arm  around  her  sister's  shoulders. 
"You  haven't  been  well  lately." 

"Never  mind,  Doris.  It  must  have  been  a 
dream." 

"It  was  not  a  dream.  I  was  away  out  in  the 
country  by  the  hickory  grove  of  the  twins' 
Haunted  House — I  left  the  car  and  walked  along 
the  creek — " 

"Did  you  see  the  Corduroy  Crab?"  asked 
Treasure  eagerly. 

"Maybe  he  lammed  her  on  the  head,"  said  Zee, 
touching  her  own  curly  brow  suggestively. 
199 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"I  did  not  see  any  one.  And  I  went  right  back 
to  the  road —  You  know  I  couldn't  go  way  out 
there  on  foot,  father." 

"You  must  have  been  walking  in  your  sleep, 
dear,"  said  Rosalie.  "Maybe  you  only  dreamed 
you  were  there.  You  are  home  now,  anyhow,  and 
the  car  is  here,  and  everything  is  all  right." 

"Rosalie,  do  you  think  I  am  out  of  my  head?" 
demanded  Doris  sharply. 

"I  think  it  was  a  bad  dream,  dearest." 

"Come  on  back  to  the  house,"  said  their  father 
pleasantly.  "Be  glad  the  car  is  here." 

"I'll  bet  the  old  place  is  haunted,  and  they've 
put  a  spell  on  Doris.  Maybe  it  was  the  Curious 
Cat — he  says  he  can  put  charms,"  suggested  Zee. 

Doris  smiled  at  that.  As  far  as  she  could  see, 
it  was  the  only  explanation  possible — the  Curious 
Cat  had  certainly  put  his  charm  upon  her. 

She  was  very  cross  at  Rosalie — for  Rosalie 
insisted  that  Doris  lie  down,  and  she  herself 
stayed  at  home  from  school  to  do  the  work,  and 
father  sat  by  the  cot  all  morning — it  was  per- 
fectly infuriating.  They  looked  at  her  with  ten- 
200 


MR.  WIZARD 

der  solicitude,  and  Rosalie  made  more  hot  coffee 
for  her,  and  bathed  her  brow  every  few  minutes, 
and  Doris  fumed  impotently.  For  she  was  help- 
less. Father  had  said,  "I  think  you'd  better, 
dearest,"  and  when  father  said  things  in  that 
quiet  settled  voice  even  the  General  refrained 
from  argument. 

But  to  lie  there  like  an  invalid — when  she  had 
only  been  on  the  trail  of  mystery  and —  She  had 
found  mystery,  though !  She  could  swear  by  her 
life's  blood  that  she  had  driven  the  car  out  to  the 
hickory  grove.  And  she  had  certainly  walked 
home.  But  how  in  the  world  came  the  car  safely 
back  in  the  manse  garage?  It  was  more  than 
Doris  could  understand. 

When  the  girls  came  home  to  lunch  they  kissed 
Doris  tenderly  and  spoke  to  her  in  a  softly  sooth- 
ing way  that  made  her  long  to  shake  them.  When 
they  were  eating  their  lunch  Zee  was  called  to 
the  telephone,  and  she  crossed  the  room  on  tip- 
toes, and  whispered  "Yes,"  very  softly,  and  then 
she  gave  a  little  scream. 

"You — did  ? —  Mercy !  Well,  thank  goodness ! 
201 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

Oh,  you  horrible  thing,  won't  Doris  rage  ? — Why, 
no,  Mr.  Curious  Cat,  your  charm  did  not  work 
worth  a  cent.  It  was  not  Treasure  and  I  at  all. 
It  was  Doris,  and  the  poor  thing  had  to  walk  all 
thfe  way  home,  and  she  is  in  bed,  and  we  thought 
she  was  out  of  her  mind,  and  she  said  the  car 
was  stolen."  She  hung  up  the  receiver  abruptly, 
and  did  not  hear  the  sharp  exclamations  at  the 
other  end  of  the  wire. 

Doris  rose  from  the  cot,  and  the  family  rushed 
from  the  table. 

"Tell  it,  and  talk  fast,"  commanded  the  Gen- 
eral. 

Zee  flung  herself  into  a  big  chair  and  rocked 
and  screamed  with  laughter.  "Oh,  Treasure,  we 
are  even  with  the  Curious  Cat  at  last."  Then 
wiping  her  eyes,  and  between  bursts  of  laughter, 
she  explained.  "He  began  talking  in  that  sar- 
castic smart  little  way  he  has,  and  he  said,  'Say, 
Miss  Zee,  the  next  time  I  find  that  red  car  of 
yours  stuck  in  front  of  my  house  I  am  going  to 
take  it  as  a  gift  from  Heaven,  and  keep  it.  But 
this  time,  just  to  be  friendly  and  keep  you  out  of 
202 


MR.  WIZARD 

a  scrape,  I  drove  it  home  for  you  and  left  it  in 
your  garage.  I  suppose  you  were  playing  hooky, 
1  and  got  stuck.  Did  I  save  you?  I  shall  never  do 
it  again.'  " 

How  they  all  laughed,  even  Doris,  and  how 
heartily  she  ate  of  the  luncheon  Rosalie  had  pre- 
pared, and  what  a  splendid  joke  it  was —  Only 
Doris  did  wish  she  had  just  remained  in  the  car 
instead  of  strolling  up  the  creek — he  was  such  a 
funny  Curious  Cat — maybe —  Oh,  then  he  did 
own  the  Haunted  House,  after  all ! 

"He  was  teasing  you  girls  again,"  she  crie3. 
"The  Crab  and  the  Courteous  Coon  must  be  his 
servants,  for  he  said  you  left  the  car  in  front  of 
his  house." 

Then  the  girls  were  freshly  indignant — pre-» 
tending  he  was  getting  tea  from  the  Crab,  when 
it  was  his  own  tea,  and  he  could  give  it  away  if 
he  wished!  But  it  was  funny  anyhow,  and  novf. 
he  was  a  more  Curious  Cat  than  ever. 

That  afternoon,  when  the  girls  had  gone  to 
school,  deciding  that  Doris  could  safely  be  left 
alone  now — and  when  father  had  gone  calling, 
203 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

Doris  hurried  up-stairs  and  arranged  her  hair  in. 
most  enticing  little  curls  around  her  forehead, 
and  put  on  her  very  daintiest,  bluest,  floweriest 
dress — because  he  was  in  honor  bound  to  call 
her  up  and  make  apology.  Oh,  of  course,  he 
would  not  see  the  enticing  curls,  and  the  dainty 
blue  flowery  dress — but  it  was  a  great  moral  sup- 
port to  know  that  she  looked  irreproachable,  even 
when  none  was  there  to  see.  And  she  wanted  to 
be  very  clever  and  interesting  over  the  telephone 
— because — he  really  had  done  a  very  disagree- 
able thing,  and  she  wanted  to  make  him  sorry. 

And  then  he  did  not  telephone  at  all.  He  came 
himself — in  person — and  Doris  knew  some  kindly 
angel  had  been  guiding  her  actions  that  day. 
When  she  heard  the  ring  she  went  to  the  door  so 
lightly,  so  unconcernedly,  sure  it  was  something 
trivial  and  some  one  unimportant.  And  there  he 
stood,  smiling  at  her,  regret  in  his  eyes. 

"I  brought  my  apology  with  me.  May  I  come 
in  and  deliver  it  ?" 

"Yes,  please  do.   I  know  where  you  live,  and 
that  is  a  beginning,  isn't  it?" 
204 


MR.  WIZARD 

"How  did  you  learn  that?" 

"You  said  the  car  was  in  front  of  your  house. 
And  it  was  the  Haunted  House,"  she  cried  glee- 
fully. 

"Did  you  really  have  to  walk  home?" 

"Four  miles  and  a  half."  Somehow  it  did  not 
seem  half  so  long  and  weary  a  way  now  as  it  had 
been  seeming  all  the  day.  "And  I  was  sure  the 
car  was  stolen.  And  when  we  found  it  in  the 
garage  they  thought  I  was  ill  and  put  me  to  bed, 
and  Rosalie  stayed  home  from  school  to  nurse 
me." 

"I  am  sorry.  It  was  terribly  stupid  of  me.  I 
was  sure  the  girls  were  in  another  scrape,  and 
when  the  car  stuck  on  them  had  got  a  ride  back 
to  school.  It  was  a  terrible  blunder." 

"I  am  glad  of  it  now,  because  it  brought  you 
to  visit  me." 

And  he  seemed  in  not  the  least  bit  of  hurry, 
but  settled  back  and  talked,  and  he  had  a  wonder- 
ful basket  of  fruit,  apples  and  grapes  and  golden 
pears,  and  he  hoped  Doris  would  accept  them 
in  token  of  forgiveness. 

205 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"But  when  you  tell  your  father,  will  he  ask 
brought  them  ?" 

"I  shall  just  say  the  Curious  Cat  brought  them 
to  apologize — and  father  is  not  a  bit  inquisitive. 
He  will  think  it  is  quite  all  right — he  has  the 
dearest  way  of  thinking  things  are  quite  all 
right." 

Doris  did  long  to  know  how  old  he  was — of 
course  she  could  not  ask — he  surely  was  not 
nearly  so  old  as  father,  yet  he  did  not  look  young. 
The  college  men  of  Rosalie's  favor  looked  like 
children  beside  him.  And  he  talked  like  a  man 
who  knew  things.  But  he  could  not  be  old — he 
laughed  so  readily,  and  teased  so  constantly,  and 
his  eyes  were  so  friendly  and  warm.  Father  was 
forty-three,  and  forty-three  is  very  terribly  old 
when  one  is  twenty. 

They  had  tea  together — on  the  Endeavor  china. 
He  was  much  more  fun  than  the  bishop.  And  in  I 
spite  of  the  very-close-to-gray-hairs  at  his  tem- 
ples, he  had  a  dear  boyish  way  of  settling  back 
in  a  chair  and  getting  himself  comfortable  and 
happy.  And  when  you  see  another  thoroughly 
206 


MR.  WIZARD 

comfortable  and  happy  right  at  your  side,  you 
are  bound  to  feel  the  same  way  yourself.  And 
Doris  did. 

After  she  had  watched  his  departure  from  the 
shelter  of  the  front  window,  sKe  came  back  into 
the  room,  and  there  on  the  card  tray — how  in 
the  world  it  got  there  she  could  not  imagine — 
but  she  knew  instantly  it  was  his  card — and  she 
pounced  upon  it  eagerly. 

"Mr.  Daniel  Amberton  MacCaromon." 

After  all,  the  name  meant  nothing.  And  there 
was  so  much  she  wished  to  know.  Kis  age,  and 
who  he  was,  and  why  he  came  there,  and  what  in 
the  world  he  was  doing  in  the  Haunted  House, 
and — oh,  a  thousand  things. 

But  Doris  looked  at  the  card  in  a  friendly  <rcm- 
panionable  way,  and  said,  in  her  softest  and 
chummiest  voice : 

"Honestly,  I  like  you," 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    PHILOSOPHER 

"'V  TOW,  Doris,"  began  Rosalie  briskly,  "you 
A,  ^1  must  help  decide  my  life  career.  They 
gave  us  a  fine  talk  at  chapel  this  morning,  urging 
us  to  spot  our  high  ambitions  for  guiding  stars 
to  work  toward.  Of  course,  we  can  change  our 
minds  later  on  if  we  like,  we  are  not  to  be  irrev- 
ocably bound  to  what  we  say,  but  no  student 
'can  plan  most  wisely  and  most  surely  for  the 
future,  without  a  pole  star  ever  shining  in  his 
mind's  eye/  "  she  quoted  patly.  "Now,  what  are 
my  ambitions?" 

"Mercy,  Rosalie,  you  know  your  ambitions  bet- 
ter than  I  do,"  said  Doris,  as  earnestly  as  though 
the  same  subject  had  not  been  discussed  regularly 
ever  since  Rosalie  was  a  freshman. 

"I  think  I  was  born  for  the  stage,  barring  the 
one  accident   of  the  ministry.     But  since  that 
avenue  of  fame  is  closed,  what  shall  I  do?   Shall 
208 


THE  PHILOSOPHER 

I  be  a  teacher — and  if  so,  a  teacher  of  what?   I 
am  not  particularly  clever,  you  know." 

"You  are  very  clever,  indeed,  and  I  think  you 
would  be  a  wonderful  teacher." 

"Thanks,  but  I  have  neither  patience  nor  dig- 
nity, and  all  authorities  agree  that  they  are  prime 
requisites." 

"You  can  be  as  patient  and  dignified  as  any- 
body if  you  want  to.  And  you  are  tactful  and 
pleasant,  both  good  teaching  qualities.  I  suppose 
you  do  not  feel  particularly  drawn  to  any  re- 
ligious work,  missionary,  or — or  pastor's  assist- 
ant, or  anything  like  that?" 

"I  am  interested  in  gymnasium  work,"  said 
Rosalie.  "It  seems  my  only  forte.  I  am  very 
good  at  all  outdoor  sports,  and  I  have  a  fine 
physique,  and  adore  exercise." 

"That  would  be  nice." 

"Some  places  I  might  have  to  teach  dancing. 
I  could  handle  it  as  one  form  of  physical  develop- 
ment, and  if  the  naughty  things  took  it  into  the 
ballroom  it  wouldn't  be  my  fault,  would  it?" 

"Not — exactly — I  suppose." 
209 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"But  I  ought  to  have  an  extra  year  for  special 
study  somewhere  after  I  finish  college.  JDo  you 
suppose  we  could  manage  it,  father?" 

Mr.  Artman  looked  up  from  his  mail  absently. 
"Yes,  dear,  what?  I  am  afraid  I  was  not  paying 
attention."  His  eyes  wandered  back  to  the  letter 
in  his  hand. 

Rosalie  promptly  deposited  herself  on  his  knee, 
pulling  his  arms  around  her. 

"Doris  has  just  decided  that  I  would  be  a 
lovely  athletic  director  for  girls  if  I  could  have  a 
year  of  special  training  after  college.  Prospects, 
please  ?" 

"Maybe  we  could  arrange  it — I  hope  so.  It 
would  be  fine.  But — things  might  interfere." 

"Always  granted,  of  course,  dearest,  but  am  I 
justified  in  saying  it  is  my  present  plan  if  things 
dc  not  interfere?" 

"Yes,  to  be  sure,  but — remember — plans  have 
a  way  of  going  astray,  dear." 

"Why,  father,  that  does  not  sound  like  you." 

"I  know,  forgive  me,  but  I  do  not  feel  like 
myself  to-day.  Look  ahead  to  it,  Rosalie,  by  all 
210 


THE  PHILOSOPHER 

means,  and  count  on  it,  and  if  it  is  right  for  you, 
it  will  come." 

"That  is  the  way  for  a  preacher  to  talk,"  said 
Rosalie.  "Then  it  is  all  settled,  isn't  it?" 

She  ran  back  to  her  chair,  and  her  father 
turned  anxious  eyes  on  the  letter  again.  He  did 
not  notice  that  his  girls  looked  at  him  often,  and 
very  wonderingly.  Presently  he  went  to  the  tele- 
phone and  put  in  a  long-distance  call  to  Chicago. 
Two  years  previous  he  had  taken  a  course  of 
study  at  the  seminary  in  Chicago,  and  ever  since 
had  made  frequent  appointments  with  Doctor 
Hancock  necessitating  hurried  trips  to  the  city. 

"Some  old  'prof'  at  the  seminary,  I  suppose," 
Doris  said  lightly.  "They  won't  let  us  preachers 
settle  down  and  preach  and  be  comfortable  now- 
adays. They  keep  us  up  and  coming  every  min- 
ute, studying  this  and  studying  that,  and  then 
practising  what  we  study  on  the  public.  It  is  no 
easy  matter  being  a  preacher  any  more." 

And  so,  although  the  Chicago  trips  had  grown 
more  and  more  frequent,  Doris  gave  thew  small 
heed. 

211 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

But  after  her  father  had  left  the  house  the 
next  morning,  she  walked  soberly  up-stairs  to 
where  Rosalie  was  dressing  for  school  and  said, 
:  "Rosalie,  I  hate  to  push  my  worries  on  to  you, 
but — does — father  act  funny  some  way?  Or  do 
I  imagine  it?  He  seems  so  serious  and  anxious. 

"He  has  been  rather  quiet  lately,"  said  Rosalie 
slowly. 

"I  am  sure  he  is  not  well.  I  wish  he  did  not 
take  these  Chicago  trips  so  often.  I  think  they 
expect  entirely  too-  much  of  us  preachers.  He  is 
always  tired  and  worried  when  he  gets  home. 
If  we  had  a  bishop,  I  think  I  should  report  it." 

Rosalie  said  nothing. 

Both  girls  watched  their  father  closely  when 
he  returned  home  late  that  night.  He  ,was  tired 
indeed,  and  his  eyes  were  darkly  circled.  He 
did  not  laugh  so  freely  as  usual  at  their  merry 
chatter,  and  though  he  was  tender  with  them  as 
always,  he  seemed  distrait  and  absent-minded, 
which  was  not  like  him.  And  Doris  pondered 
over  it  anxiously. 

The  next  morning  he  came  down-stairs  wear- 
212 


THE  PHILOSOPHER 

ing  wide  amber  glasses,  "which,"  he  explained 
apologetically,  "I  am  not  wearing  for  style,  I  as- 
sure you,  but  the  light  seems  rather  too  much  for 
me.  I  think  it  causes  the  headaches." 

The  girls  had  great  fun  with  the  amber  glasses, 
shaking  their  heads  sadly  over  his  worldliness, 
for  every  one  knew  that  amber  glasses  were 
fashionable.  But  after  that,  he  always  wore  them 
except  when  he  went  into  the  pulpit. 

Two  days  later,  when  he  came  in  to  lunch,  his 
face  was  as  bright  and  smiling  as  it  had  been  in 
the  olden  days  when  his  laughter  had  been  as 
spontaneous  as  Rosalie's  or  Zee's.  He  began 
talking,  boyishly,  before  he  reached  his  chair  at 
the  table,  and  the  girls  smiled  happily  at  his  cheer- 
Julness. 

"I  met  a  very  clever  man  down-town  to-day, 
and  had  quite  a  talk  with  him.  He  is  an  author — 
a  psychologist  and  philosopher — he  wrote  all 
those  books  I  have  been  so  interested  in  lately. 
Very  entertaining  fellow,  and  so  I  invited  him  to 
dinner  to-night." 

"Good  night,  nurse,"  gasped  Doris.  "You  in- 
213 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

vited  an  author  and  a  psychologist  and  a  philoso- 
pher to  dinner  to-night?" 

"Only  one,  Doris,"  he  explained  patiently. 

"Father,  there  is  something  the  matter  with 
you.  First  you  flash  a  bishop  on  us  in  the  middle 
of  the  night,  and  now  a  psychologist-philosopher 
combination.  Whatever  in  the  world  do  you  sup- 
pose he  eats?" 

"Cheer  up,"  said  Rosalie.  "He  is  a  philoso- 
pher, remember,  so  he  will  be  satisfied  with  what 
he  gets.  Food,  nowadays,  is  the  greatest  test  of 
human  philosophy." 

"Oh,  he  is  all  right.  I  am  sure  he  eats  regular 
things.  He  has  bought  a  place  out  here  to  do  his 
work — close  to  his  publishers  in  Chicago,  and  far 
enough  out  to  be  isolated  when  he  is  on  a  book. 
It  will  be  a  great  treat  for  me  to  have  him  here." 
He  looked  at  Doris  reflectively.  "Let's  have  a 
good  dinner,  regardless  of  the  cost,  and,  Doris, 
I  hope  you — I  mean,  I  hope  all  of  you — will  look 
your  very  sweetest  and  act  your  very  dearest." 

"Is  he  married?"  demanded  Zee.  "I  believe  on 
my  soul  you  have  a  scheme  to  marry  one  of  us 
214 


THE  PHILOSOPHER 

off  to  him.  Doris,  I  suppose,  for  I  am.  too  young, 
and  Treasure  is  too  good,  and  Rosalie  is  too  friv- 
olous." 

"Does  he  write  fairy  stories,  or — " 

"He  does  not  write  fairy  stories,  but  I  believe 
he  tells  them  sometimes,"  laughed  their  father. 
"And  1  have  no  matrimonial  designs  on  him,  I 
assure  you,  but  I  want  him  to  be  our  friend.  It 
will  be  a  great  pleasure  to  me,  and  a  great  help — 
and  1  need  both." 

Doris  and  Rosalie  looked  swiftly  at  each  other 
at  that,  but  neither  made  any  comment.  When 
Mr.  Artman  had  gone  up-stairs,  still  laughing 
with  satisfaction,  the  four  of  them  put  their 
heads  together. 

"Let's  think  up  a  dinner  fit  for  a — fit  for  a — " 

"A  pope,"  suggested  Zee. 

"Zee,  I  am  surprised  at  you.  Fit  for  a  presi- 
dent." 

"Since  father  said  spare  no  expense,  I  say  fried 
chicken,  and  I  want  the  wishbone." 

"A  good  idea.  We'll  have  fried  chicken.  Now 
what  else  ?" 

215 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Let's  do  it  up  in  style,  and  have  courses. 
Treasure  can  wait  on  the  table  without  spilling 
things,  and  then  come  quietly  to  her  place  with- 
out banging  chairs.  Soup — " 

"Yes." 

"Then  chicken,  mashed  potatoes,  and — " 

"Corn  fritters — I've  been  asking  for  corn  frit- 
ters for  six  weeks." 

"Well,  corn  fritters.    Salad—" 

"Olives  are  easy,  and — " 

"No,  let's  have  a  salad  like  regular  folks.  Mrs. 
Andrieson  makes  lovely  thousand  island  dress- 
ing, and  I  have  only  one  recitation  this  afternoon 
so  I'll  just  run  down  after  class  and  get  her  to 
show  me  how.  Then  we'll  have  head  lettuce  with 
the  dressing,  and — " 

"And  coffee  with  whipped  cream,  and — " 

"For  dessert — " 

"Ice-cream.  If  I  do  any  baking  I'll  be  too  hot 
to  look  nice.  Treasure,  you  run  over  to  Wil- 
cot's  and  get  a  quart  of  milk  and  a  pint  of  cream 
and  a  half  pint  of  whipping  cream,  and  Rosalie 
you  call  up  the  ice  company  and  have  them  leave  a 
216 


THE  PHILOSOPHER 

dime's  worth  of  ice  on  the  first  delivery  without 
fail,  and  I'll  freeze  it  first  thing.  And,  Rosalie, 
I  leave  the  salad  entirely  to  you." 

"I  will  go  to  Benson's  after  school  and  get 
some  flowers,"  said  Treasure.  "Mrs.  Benson  is 
always  glad  to  give  me  the  carnations  that  are 
not  fresh  enough  to  sell,  but  too  good  to  throw 
away.  And  we  can  pick  out  the  best  ones." 

"Isn't  that  grand?    Won't  father  be  pleased?" 

"And  what  shall  we  wear?" 

This  brought  forth  a  prolonged  and  heated  dis- 
cussion of  ribbons  and  gowns,  for  father  had  said 
to  look  their  sweetest  and  act  their  dearest — and 
being  girls,  they  knew  the  latter  was  impossible 
except  when  the  former  had  been  accomplished. 
Finally  all  was  arranged,  and  the  dresses  were 
laid  out  nicely  on  their  various  beds,  and  Treas- 
ure was  given  a  quarter  to  buy  a  new  blue  ribbon 
because  she  got  oil  on  the  old  one  sticking  her 
head  under  the  car  to  see  what  father  was  doing. 
And  the  girls  rushed  excitedly  to  school,  to  tell 
their  friends  carelessly  that  they  had  to  hurry 
home  to-night  and  could  not  stop  to  study  Latin 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

en  masse,  for  "Father  has  invited  a  perfectly 
enormous  author  and  psychologist  and  all  that 
to  dinner."  And  although  none  of  them  had  a 
very  clear  idea  what  kind  of  a  psychologist  he 
was,  or  what  he  did,  or  why  he  was  so  perfectly 
enormous,  the  very  meagerness  of  their  informa- 
tion added  luster  to  his  halo. 

The  table  that  night  was  a  dream  of  loveliness, 
and  the  girls  had  everything*  ready  and  were  up- 
stairs taking  a  last  final  reconnoiter  of  their 
physical  charms  when  they  heard  their  father 
greeting  the  perfectly  enormous  guest. 

They  filed  down  breathlessly,  eyes  bright  with 
anticipation,  their  hearts  palpitating  with  the  un- 
iwonted  glory  of  it.  And  then — 

"Why,  it  is  only  the  Curious  Cat,"  ejaculated 
Zee. 

"Mr.  Wizard,"  gasped  Doris.  "Father,  you 
knew  it  all  the  time." 

"Well,  I  am  glad  my  girls  have  been  encroach- 
ing on  your  hospitality,  Mr.  MacCammon,   for 
otherwise  we  might  not  have  the  privilege  of  ex- 
fending  ours  to  you  now." 
218 


THE  PHILOSOPHER 

Mr.  MacCammon  held  Doris'  hand  warmly  in 
his.  "I  hope  the  charm  has  not  all  gone  with  the 
mystery,"  he  said.  "I  was  ashamed  to  conceal 
my  identity  any  longer,  and  besides  I  wished  to 
see  more  of  you,  and  I  wanted  to  know  your 
father.  But  if  you  have  lost  all  interest  in  me 
now,  I  know  I  shall  wish  I  had  not  come  at  all." 

"I  haven't — it  isn't — not  by  any  means,"  stam- 
mered Doris  nervously,  and  hurried  away  to  the 
kitchen  to  look  after  the  dinner. 

Oh,  but  wasn't  she  glad  father  had  stipulated 
they  should  spare  no  expense  ?  It  was  a  wonder- 
ful, delicious  dinner,  and  when  he  turned  from 
gay  banter  with  Rosalie  and  Zee,  to  real  intense 
discussion  with  her  father,  and  always  bending 
warm  and  friendly  eyes  on  her — really,  it  was  too 
good  to  be  true. 

"But  I  always  said  I  liked  him,"  she  told  her- 
self, comfortably. 

After  that  he  came  often  to  the  manse,  and' 

many  times  he  took  them  all  out  to  the  Haunted 

House,  where  Mr.  Artman  was  immediately  lost 

in  the  depths  of  huge  volumes,  and  where  Treas- 

219 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

lire  and  Zee  wandered  off  to  look  for  baby  rab- 
bits with  the  Corduroy  Crab,  who  wasn't  a  bit 
crabbish  any  more,  and  where  Rosalie  flung  her- 
self into  a  big  hammock  with  a  plate  of  fruit  and 
a  chatty  story — and  what  could  he  do,  as  host,  but 
entertain  Doris,  who  was  left  without  other  form 
of  amusement? 

"Oh,  but  you  wait  till  the  bishop  comes," 
Rosalie  whispered  to  Doris,  when  they  were  safe 
in  the  manse  again.  "What  will  he  say  to  these 
carryings  on  ?  Your  very  own  bishop — " 

"He  is  not  my  very  own  bishop.  And  if  he  is, 
I  will  not  have  him.  And  it  certainly  is  nothing 
to  the  bishop  if  father  has  a  friend." 

"I  do  not  imagine  the  dear  bishop  cares  two 
cents  how  many  friends  father  has.  But  what 
your  bishop  will  say  to  you  is  more  than  I  can 
imagine.  And  who  but  a  serious  sensible  girl 
would  ever  dream  of  bandying  with  a  bishop? 
Frivolous  and  all  as  I  am,  General,  I  should  never 
be  guilty  of  trifling  with  a  bishop's  affections." 

"He  hasn't  any." 

"Oh,  yes,  he  has.  He  has  oceans  of  them.  But 
220 


THE  PHILOSOPHER 

what  difference  does  it  make  to  you  how  many 
affections  he  has  ?" 

"No  difference  at  all,"  admitted  Doris,  laugh- 
ing. And  she  added,  flushing  a  little,  but  still 
laughing,  "But  I  should  really  like  to  know 
whether — father's  friend — has  any." 

And  then  she  ran  away,  before  Rosalie  could 
catch  and  shake  her. 

The  Chicago  trips  were  very  frequent  now,  and 
in  spite  of  his  evident  pleasure  in  the  new  and 
brilliant  friend,  Mr.  Artman  grew  more  pre- 
occupied. Sometimes  Doris  could  hear  him 
pacing  up  and  down  his  room  at  night,  when  he 
should  have  been  asleep.  And  very  often  he 
pushed  his  plate  away  from  him  at  the  table,  and 
could  not  eat,  although  Doris  had  patiently  and 
painstakingly  prepared  the  dishes  he  loved  best. 
And  every  day  he  spoke  of  little  headaches,  and 
kept  the  blinds  lowered  in  his  room,  working  with 
the  amber  glasses.  And  many  times,  when  they 
thought  he  was  working,  he  was  sitting  at  his 
desk  with  his  head  in  his  arms. 

"Oh,  Rosalie,  I  can't  stand  it,"  Doris  cried  at 
221 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

last.  "I  know  there  is  something  wrong  with 
father.  But  some  way — I  can't  ask  him.  I  am 
afraid  to.  I  know  he  is  sick." 

"No,  he  is  not  sick,  Doris.  I  know  what  it  is." 

"Rosalie!" 

"One  day  I  got  a  Chicago  city  directory — 
oh,  long  ago,  when  he  first  began  making  these 
trips  to  see  Doctor  Hancock — I  got  a  directory, 
and  looked  the  doctor  up.  He  is  not  a  minister, 
as  you  thought.  He  is  an  oculist." 

"Father's  eyes!" 

"Yes.  And  last  week  I  wrote  to  the  doctor 
myself,  and  told  him  we  were  worried  about 
father,  and  asked'  him  to  tell  me.  He  says 
father's  eyes  are  very  bad,  and  he  must  have  an 
operation  as  soon  as  possible.  It  should  have 
been  done  some  time  ago,  but  father  has  been  put- 
ting it  off.  And  the  doctor  says  by  all  means  he 
should  rest  his  eyes  for  several  months,  a  year  if 
possible,  without  using  them  one  little  bit." 

For  a  moment  all  the  bright  room  went  swim- 
ming before  Doris.  Then  she  cried  out,  in  pain 
and  self-reproach, 

222 


"Let's  talk  it  over,  father" 


THE  PHILOSOPHER 

"Oh  Rosalie,  I  was  happy  myself,  and  I  forgot 
to  look  after  father.  It  was  you  who  thought 
of  him." 

"That  is  nothing.  Do  you  remember,  Doris, 
away  last  fall,  when  you  said  I  must  begin  to 
solve  my  problems  for  myself?  I  have  been  try- 
ing to,  that  is  all.  And  father  is  one  of  them. 
Somehow,  as  long  as  I  could  throw  my  worries 
off  on  you  and  father,  I  was  glad  to  do  it,  and 
did  not  care  what  came  of  it.  But  when  you  put 
things  squarely  up  to  me,  I  found  to  my  surprise 
that  I  had  a  sort  of  personal  pride  that  kept  pull- 
ing me  up  to  the  mark.  You  were  pretty  slick, 
General.  And  so  I  have  been  sort  of  looking 
ahead,  and  trying  to  help  plan  for  father." 

"I  am  going  to  have  it  out  with  him  right  now. 
He  shan't  bear  it  alone  any  longer." 

She  went  softly  up-stairs,  and  into  her  father's 
room,  which  was  always  in  shadow  now,  although 
Doris  in  her  happiness  had  thought  nothing  of  it, 
and  crept  very  quietly  into  her  father's  arms. 

"Let's  talk  it  over,  father.  How  soon  do  you 
plan  to  have  the  operation  on  your  eyes  ?  Is  Doc- 
223 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

tor  Hancock  the  very  best  you  can  get  ?  Tell  me 
what  arrangements  you  have  made.'* 

"Oh,  Doris,"  he  cried  brokenly,  dropping  his 
head  on  her  arm  and  holding  her  very  close,  "do 
you  know  ?  I  have  tried  so  hard  to  tell  you — but 
I  hadn't  the  heart.  Yes,  let's  talk  it  over."  And 
then,  in  quick  broken  sentences,  without  a  trace 
of  bitterness,  he  told  her  how  his  eyes  had  been 
growing  constantly  weaker  and  weaker,  and  how 
the  doctor  had  tried  in  every  way  to  strengthen 
them  and  to  arrest  the  trouble,  but  now  the  opera- 
tion was  unavoidable  and  could  not  be  put  off 
long,  and  it  would  mean  so  many  months  of  idle- 
ness— and  how  could  he  preach  without  his  eyes? 
And  he  was  too  young  to  be  "supered" — how 
could  he  step  aside  for  the  rest  of  his  life?  And 
how  could  he  rest,  with  four  young  girls  to  keep 
going? 

Talking  it  over  was  a  comfort.  His  voice  grew 
gradually  firmer  and  his  face  brighter.  Now  that 
he  had  the  bright  eyes  of  Doris  beside  him,  blind- 
ness seemed  more  remote,  and  more  impossible. 
New  strength  came  to  him  from  her  vivid  warm 
224 


THE  PHILOSOPHER 

vitality.  And  in  trying  to  buoy  her  with  hope, 
hope  came  to  him  also.  Two  hours  they  sat  there, 
just  talking,  saying  again  and  again  that  there 
was  a  way,  only  they  did  not  see  it — not  just  yet. 

"I  am  going  to  tell  the  girls,  father.  They  are 
old  enough — and  it  will  hurt  them  to  be  shut  otd: 
of  what  touches  you  so  closely.  And  Rosalie — • 
father,  Rosalie  is  coming  out  just  fine." 

Quickly  she  told  him  of  Rosalie's  way  of  find- 
ing out,  and  of  her  quiet  confident  facing  of  facts 
' — so  unlike  the  problematic  butterfly  they  had 
worried  over  so  many,  many  times. 

"Send  her  up  to  me,  will  you  ?  I  think  she  will 
do  me  good."  And  while  Rosalie  was  with  her 
'father  Doris  told  Treasure  and  Zee. 

"Just  be  quiet  about  it  to-night.  After  a  while 
it  will  come  natural.  But  we  must  not  talk  much, 
for  father  feels  very  badly.  Just  let  him  see  that 
we  are  sorry — and  we  must  all  be  very  positive 
there  is  a  grand  way  out  for  us,  and  we  must 
find  it." 

There  had  never  been  such  sweet  and  tended 
harmony  in  the  manse  as  on  that  night — the  sor- 
225 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

row  falling  on  each  one  alike  drew  them  very; 
close  together.  And  when  they  went  to  bed  at 
last,  each  one  in  characteristic  way  thanked  God 
that  there  were  five  to  bear  the  hurt,  for  grief 
divided  by  five,  after  all,  is  only  one-fifth  a  grief. 


CHAPTER  XII 

FINDING   THE    PATH 

THAT  Mr.  MacCammon  had  suspected  the 
trouble  long  before  he  was  told  of  it  did 
not  surprise  them  at  all.  Somehow  they  always 
expected  the  most  unexpected  things  of  him. 
And  he  entered  into  their  plans  naturally  and 
helpfully,  as  became  one  who  boasted  fairy 
powers. 

"I  have  a.  grand  idea,"  announced  Doris.  "I 
thought  of  it  just  as  Mr.  MacCammon  came  in. 
Not  that  he  has  anything  to  do  with  it — but  the 
sight  of  him  inspired  me." 

"Yes,  and  what  is  the  grand  idea?"  urged  her 
father,  who  knew  from  of  old  that  her  ideas  were 
always  well  worth  considering. 

"There  is  only  one  month  of  school  before  va- 
cation, and  then  we  will  be  a  united  family  to 
handle  you — and  fathers  take  a  lot  of  handling, 
227 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

you  know.  Now,  I  think  you  should  ask  for  your 
vacation  right  away — on  full  pay,  you  understand 
— and  go  to  Chicago  and  have  the  operation  at 
once.  Then  by  the  time  school  is  out  the  worst 
will  be  over.  It  will  be  quite  easy  to  fill  the  pulpit 
now,  because  the  town  will  be  full  of  ministers 
here  for  commencement,  and  the  trustees'  meet- 
ing, and  such  things,  and  they  will  be  glad  to 
preach  when  they  find  how  father  is  taking  his 
vacation." 

"A  good  idea,  as  you  say.  And  it  will  be  a  re- 
lief to  have  it  over.  Maybe  I  can  arrange — ' 

"You  needn't  arrange  anything.  Leave  it  to 
me.  I  shall  go  to  the  president  of  the  college, 
and  put  up  a  scheme  with  him — when  ministers 
come  visiting  he  will  tip  me  off,  and  I  shall  per- 
sonally invite  them  to  preach.  Leave  it  to  me." 

"But  suppose  you  should  miss  a  meeting?" 

"If  she  does,  I  shall  give  them  a  lecture  on  the 
psychology  of  religion.  I  can  tell  them  a  few 
things  that  are  not  mentioned  in  the  Bible,  but 
can  help  to  make  them  better  Christians  none  the 
less,"  offered  Mr.  MacCammon. 
228 


FINDING  THE  PATH 

"You  should  not  suppose  such  things  anyhow, 
father,  it  isn't  ministerial.  But  since  you  hesitate 
to  trust  me  alone,  maybe  you  can  let  Providence 
and  me  together  assume  the  responsibility  with 
Mr.  MacCammon  to  back  us  up." 

"That  puts  it  on  a  firm  foundation,  at  least. 
In  the  meantime  I  shall  use  my  eyes  as  little  as 
possible — " 

"Not  at  all!  Rest  them  absolutely,"  said  Mr. 
MacCammon  quickly.  "Get  them  in  good  shape 
for  the  operation.  Wear  the  biggest,  blackest 
glasses  you  can  get,  and  do  not  look  at  a  paper  of 
book.  Do  not  even  touch  your  Bible." 

"I  know  my  Bible  pretty  well,  and  I  can  think 
my  Scripture.  But  I  shall  miss  the  head-lines." 

"Oh,  father,  let  me  read  the  paper  to  you  every 
morning.  I  am  a  good  reader,"  cried  Rosalie.  "I 
come  out  strong  on  the  right  words,  everybody 
says  so." 

"The  problem  will  be  afterward.  How  can  I 
preach  those  weeks  when  I  can  not  study  ?" 

"Oh,  father,  we've  been  scheming,"  cried 
Doris.  "Rosalie  and  I  got  out  the  barrel  of  old 
229 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

sermons  you  had  at  Delta  before  we  came  here, 
and  we  sorted  over  the  outlines  and  picked  out  a 
lot  of  good  ones,  and — you  can  preach  from  those 
this  summer.  You  tell  the  rest,  Rosalie — it  is 
your  contribution." 

"Well,  father,"  she  said  shyly,  "when  I  knew 
about  your  eyes  I  began  to  get  ready  to  help.  For 
I  knew  Doris  would  have  the  family  to  manage, 
and  that  I  was  the  proper  one  to  stand  with  you. 
And  so  I  took  a  lot  of  special  courses  in  Bible 
study  and  practical  Christianity  and  social  service 
stuff,  and  I  can  look  up  references  as  quick  as  a 
wink,  and  really  I  know  a  lot.  So  I  shall  be  your 
pastor's  assistant,  and  furnish  the  eyes  while  your 
own  are  resting." 

"Why,  Rosalie,  you  little — Problem,"  he  said 
brokenly. 

"I  wanted  to  surprise  you,  father.  And  all  the 
time  I  was  talking  of  my  career — I  knew  that  my 
career  would  be — right  here  with  you  and  Doris, 
backing  up  the  manse." 

He  held  her  hands  very  closely  in  his,  and  did 
not  speak  for  a  while.  "Every  one  is  taking 
230 


FINDING  THE  PATH 

hold,"  he  said  at  last.  "I  have  worked  all  my  life 
* — every  day  crowded  full  to  overflowing —  Now 
everything  is  going,  and —  How  shall  I  fill  the 
days?" 

"There  is  where  I  come  in,"  said  Mr.  Mao 
"Cammon  quickly.  "I  have  to  begin  some  very 
important  proof-reading  on  my  newest  philoso- 
phy, my  very  best  work  and  the  most  pretentious. 
And  I  was  wondering  if  you  wouldn't  come  out 
and  loaf  with  me  most  of  the  time — and  let  me 
proof-read  aloud  to  you — I  really  need  some  ex- 
pert opinion  as  I  go  along.  Maybe  it  would  help 
you  with  the  time — I  know  it  would  help  me  with 
the  book." 

Mr.  Artman  sat  silent  again  for  a  while. 
"Girls,"  he  began  finally,  "I  am  ashamed  to  say 
I  was  puzzled.  I  could  not  see  the  way.  Now  it 
is  opening  up,  step  after  step — and  the  rest  will 
come  in  its  proper  time.  I  shall  never  worry 
again.  And  to-morrow  night  I  will  ask  for  my 
vacation  at  once." 

"Have  you  got  the  money,  father?"  asked  Zee. 

"We  may  have  to  squeeze  a  little,"  he  said, 
231 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

smiling.  "The  board  will  advance  my  June  sal- 
ary, I  know,  and  the  household  bills  can  run  for 
a  while.  There  is  a  little  in  the  bank — I  do  not 
Icnow  just  how  much — " 

"Forty-two  dollars  and  eighty-six  cents,"  said 
Doris  practically.  "But  the  bills  for  this  month 
are  paid — I  can  see  the  hand  of  a  tender  Provi- 
dence in  that.  For  it  is  mighty  seldom  we  have 
the  bills  paid  and  forty-two  dollars  and  eighty- 
six  cents  besides." 

"The  forty-two  dollars  will  run  you  here  at 
home,  and  the  June  salary  will  see  me  through  at 
Chicago." 

"Just  as  I  am  always  trying  to  show  you," 
said  Zee.  "We  preachers  have  our  troubles,  but 
there  is  always  a  plain  path  made  for  us." 

"When  we  get  to  it,  yes.  The  trouble  is  that 
some  of  us  have  a  habit  of  wanting  to  see  the 
path  before  we  get  there.  I  like  to  use  a  telescope 
on  it,  miles  ahead,  I  am  afraid,"  her  father  ad- 
mitted. 

How  simply  and  naturally  things  worked  out, 
after  all  the  months  of  anxious  fear.  The  vaca- 
232 


FINDING  THE  PATH 

tion  was  arranged  without  the  slightest  trouble. 
The  June  salary  was  paid  in  advance  with  no 
dissenting  voice.  And  one  elder,  the  dearest  of 
them  all,  said  gently : 

"And  there  are  a  few  of  us  who  wish  to  make 
up  a  little  purse — oh,  not  much — just  a  little  word 
of  appreciation,  you  know — we'll  get  it  together 
and  put  it  into  the  bank  for  you — it  may  help  a 
little." 

Mr.  Artman's  conscience  kept  him  awake  hours 
that  night,  for  he  had  been  worrying  about 
money,  too — worrying  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
every  step  had  been  cleared  when  the  time  for 
stepping  came — and  he  had  worried  about  the 
bills  there  would  be  when  the  operation  was  over 
and  he  was  at  home  again.  For  his  expenses  in 
Chicago  would  be  heavy,  even  though  he  went  to 
the  Presbyterian  hospital  where  "they  do  minis- 
ters for  nothing."  And  Doctor  Hancock  had  ar- 
ranged with  the  surgeon  that  the  expense  of  the 
operation  could  wait  till  a  convenient  time.  The 
girls'  expenses  would  be  much  lighter  when 
school  was  out,  and  they  would  not  use  the  car 
233 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

quite  so  often,  only  now  and  then  when  they 
could  not  resist  the  luring  call  of  it. 

"I  want  you  to  come  for  a  drive  with  me  in 
my  car  to-night,  Doris,"  Mr.  MacCammon  said 
one  evening.  "You  have  taken  me  in  yours  sev- 
eral times  and  you  are  always  so  concerned  with 
speedometers  and  gears  that  you  pay  no  attention 
to  my  conversation.  To-night  you  go  joy-riding 
on  my  gas." 

"Thank  you,  I  shall  be  glad  to,"  said  Doris  in 
her  very  politest  manner,  for  to  go  joy-riding  on 
some  other  person's  gas  was  a  great  treat,  and 
to  go  joy-riding  on.  Mr.  MacCammon's  gas  was 
the  greatest  treat  of  all.  So  she  put  on  the  charm- 
ing blue  motor  hat — home-made  out  of  old  veils 
and  scraps  of  velvet,  but  which,  as  Rosalie  said, 
was  just  as  flirtatious  as  though  it  had  cost  forty- 
two  dollars  and  eighty-six  cents  at  Marshall 
Field's.  Mr.  MacCammon  helped  her  into  the 
car  very  formally,  and  Rosalie  from  the  front 
porch  waved  them  away. 

"Father,"  she  said  to  him  when  the  car  had  dis- 
appeared, "I  hope  your  eyes  have  not  affected 
234 


FINDING  THE  PATH 

your  mental  vision.  I  suppose  you  realize  that 
your  perfectly  wonderfully  philosophical  psychol- 
ogist or  whatever  he  is,  is  quite  humanly  and 
commonplacely  and  every-dayly  in  love,  with  your 
darling  Doris." 

"Oh,  Rosalie,  don't  give  me  anything  more  to 
worry  about.  I  do  not  care  how  perfectly  won- 
derfully philosophical  and  psyschological  he  is, 
he  shall  not  come  upsetting  my  household,  that  is 
certain." 

But  Mr.  Artman  smiled.  After  all,  Doris  was 
a  dear  girl,  and  Mr.  MacCammon  was — even 
more  than  Rosalie  had  said.  And  it  was  one  op- 
portunity in  ten  thousand,  in  his  private  opinion. 
And  wasn't  it  just  like  Providence  to  give  that 
opportunity  to  one  of  the  sweet  simple  girls  of 
the  manse,  rather  than  to  some  of  the  more  pre- 
tentious, more  expectant  girls  of  the  little  town? 

"What  I  particularly  wished  to  say  to  you  is 
this,"  Mr.  MacCammon  was  saying  to  Doris — > 
"if  you  can  get  your  eyes  off  the  mileage  long 
enough  to  listen." 

Doris  turned  around  sidewise  in  the  seat  and 
235 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

snuggled  back  among  the  cushions  and  looked  at 
him  so  directly  that  his  mind  went  wandering  on 
the  instant,  and  they  were  silent  a  while. 

"A  penny  for  them,"  he  offered  suddenly. 

"I  was  just  wondering  how  old  you  really  are. 
It  has  bothered  me  so  long.  And  you  need  not 
give  me  the  penny,  I  much  prefer  the  informa- 
tion." 

"I  am  thirty-six.  And  I  was  going  to  say  this 
— are  you  planning  to  go  to  Chicago  with  your 
father?" 

"Now  I  know  you  are  truly  a  wizard.  I  have 
thought  of  that  every  minute  of  the  whole  day.  I 
am  afraid  we  can't.  We  wanted  to,  Rosalie  and 
I  both,  but  we  just  have  to  save  the  pennies.  So 
I  think  we  shall  hand  him  over  to  Providence 
when  he  gets  on  the  train." 

"It  does  not  cost  a  great  deal — " 

"Six  dollars  per  round  trip — and  it  costs  a 
fortune  to  stay  in  Chicago  even  a  few  days.  We 
can  not  afford  it."  She  sighed  a  little.  Once  in 
a  while  it  really  hurts  to  be  poor. 

"I  think  I  told  you,  didn't  I,  that  I  have  to  go 
236 


FINDING  THE  PATH 

to  Chicago  myself  this  week  to  arrange  for  the 
publishing  of  the  new  book?  What,  didn't  I  tell 
you  ?  Stupid  of  me  to  forget  it." 

"You  did  not  tell  me,  and  I  know  you  are  just 
going  to  watch  over  father,  and  I  think  you  are 
wonderful." 

She  caught  his  hand  and  kissed  it  with  girlisli 
gratitude,  while  he  smiled  on  her  with  tender 
eyes. 

"Of  course,  you  do  not  care  if  my  car  is 
smashed,"  he  said  whimsically.  "I  notice  you 
keep  both  hands  on  the  wheel  every  minute  when 
you  have  that  precious  little  red  thing  of  yours 
out.  But  my  car  is  different." 

"Oh,  excuse  me,"  she  smiled  brightly,  winking- 
back  the  tears. 

"Well,  let  me  finish.  I  have  a  small  apartment 
in  Chicago — not  much  of  a  place,  but  a  cozy  cor- 
ner out  by  the  lake  where  I  can  sneak  off  and 
work  when  I  wish  and  nobody  else  can  find  me. 
It  has  a  little  kitchen  and  some  stuff  where  Bangs 
can  fix  me  up  a  meal,  or  I  can  do  it  myself  if  he 
is  not  with  me.  I  keep  the  apartment  all  the  time, 
237 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

to  be  ready  for  a  hurry  order,  but  I  have  a  friend 
in  the  city,  too,  and  when  I  just  run  in  far  a 
couple  of  nights  or  so,  with  no  special  work  to  do, 
I  bunk  with  him,  to  be  sociable.  So  why  couldn't 
you  and  Rosalie  go  up  and  take  my  apartment 
for  a  week,  and  I  can  stay  with  Johnson?  It 
would  be  easier  for  you  to  stand  it  there  than 
here — and  I  think  your  father  would  like  it." 

"Oh,  that  is  just —  But  the  fare —  Still,  it 
wouldn't  be —  Oh,  dear  me,  now  I  don't  know 
what,"  cried  Doris  desperately. 

"Of  course,  I  will  excuse  you  for  interrupting 
me,  since  you  ask  it,"  he  said  evenly.  "But  I  was 
far  from  through.  I  am  going  to  drive  up  to  Chi- 
cago in  my  car.  I  have  a  lot  of  running  around 
to  do,  out  to  Evanston  and  to  the  University,  and 
all  over  town.  I  haven't  the  time  to  bother  with 
street-cars,  nor  the  patience  to  bother  with  taxis. 
So  I  shall  take  my  own  locomotion  with  me.  It 
is  a  good  road  all  the  way,  and  I  can  make  the 
run  in  a  few  hours.  Of  course,  your  father  could 
not  drive  up  in  the  wind,  but  you  and  Rosalie 
seem  fairly  healthy,  and  I  have  a  back  seat.  So 
238 


FINDING  THE  PATH 

if  you  feel  any  desire  to  go  with  me,  why,  I 
think—" 

Doris  put  her  head  in  her  arm  on  the  back  of 
the  seat  and  sobbed.  Then  she  sat  up  quickly  and 
patted  his  arm  as  warmly  as  she  dared  with  any 
degree  of  safety  to  the  steering,  and  said : 

"Mr.  Wizard,  please  wake  me  up.  You  have 
me  under  the  spell  of  your  charm,  and  I  am 
dreaming  things." 

"I  hope  you  are  under  the  spell  of  my  charm, 
and  I  wouldn't  wake  you  up  for  a  thousand  dol- 
lars," he  said  explosively,  and  although  of  course 
it  was  only  a  joke,  Doris  blushed  and  began  mak- 
ing plans  for  the  trip  very  hurriedly. 

"What  shall  we  do  with  the  little  girls?"  she 
asked,  confident  of  his  ability  to  do  something. 

"I  had  not  reached  that  portion  of  the  family 
yet.  Let  me  see — they  can  have  Bangs  to  take 
care  of  them." 

"Wouldn't  they  love  that?  No,  we'll  get  Miss 

Carlton.   She  has  been  hinting  to  come  for  a  visit 

for  quite  a  while,  and  now  is  just  the  time.    It 

will  shock  her  to  find  father  gone — but  she  is 

239 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

fine  in  an  emergency,  and  this  is  one.   Now  let's 
hurry  home  and  tell  father." 

When  Rosalie  heard  of  this  new  and  wonderful 
dispensation  of  Providence  in  the  person  of  the 
enormous  philosopher,  she  looked  at  him  very 
steadily  and  said  in  her  softest  voice : 

"Mr.  MacCammon,  you  haven't  a  brother, 
have  you,  a  younger  brother  who  looks  like  you 
— or  a  son  ?" 

"No,"  he  said,  staring  at  her  in  surprise.  "I 
haven't  anybody.  Why?" 

"I  wanted  to  put  in  an  application  for  him,  that 
is  all." 

"Why,  Rosalie."  Suddenly  he  laughed  aloud, 
and  drew  her  away  to  a  remote  corner  of  the 
room.  "Then  I  take  it  that  my  efforts  along  this 
line  do  not  meet  with  your  disapproval  ?" 

"Quite  the  contrary." 

"Can  you  assure  me  of  success?"  he  asked,  still 
smiling,  but  Rosalie  observed  that  his  eyes  were 
very  bright  and  very  earnest. 

"No,"  she  said  slowly.  "One  can  not  quite  do 
that,  you  know." 

240 


FINDING  THE  PATH 

He  looked  suddenly  startled.  "You  don't  mean 
— is  there  anybody —  There  can't  be  any  one — " 

"Has  she  told  you  about  the  bishop?" 

"No,  she  hasn't  mentioned  the  bishop — or  any- 
body," he  said  in  a  voice  quite  changed. 

"Why,  Mr.  MacCammon,  you  would  not  want 
to  win  your  heart's  desire  too  easily,  would  you  ? 
Think  what  a  satisfaction  it  will  be  later  on  to 
know  that  you  outclassed  a  bishop!" 

"Yes,  but  suppose  I  don't.  These — excuse  me, 
these — bishops,  you  know — something  about  the 
cloth — the  glamour  of  the  church —  But  it  helps 
to  have  your  blessing.  I  thought  you  hadn't  no- 
ticed." 

"You  thought  I  hadn't  noticed?  Mercy!  What 
ails  the  man  ?  Thought  I  hadn't  noticed —  Why, 
how  could  I  help  it?" 

"I  don't  know.  Hang  that  bishop !  Oh,  shucks, 
what  is  a  bishop?  Come  on,  congratulate  me — 
do  it  right  now,  to  spur  me  on  and  just  to  prove 
that  we  don't  care  two  cents  for  the  bishop." 

Rosalie  held  out  her  hand.  "I  congratulate  you 
with  all  my  heart.    You  are  not  good  enough  for 
241 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

her,  but  if  she  is  satisfied,  I  should  worry.    On  be- 
half of  the  manse,  I  welcome  you." 

"Thanks.  Now  it  is  all  settled.  I  feel  better." 
And  they  laughed  together  gaily. 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  two  doing,  whis- 
pering back  there  in  the  corner?"  asked  Doris 
curiously.  "Mercy,  are  you  holding  hands  ?" 

"We  are  sealing  a  solemn  pact,"  he  answered 
blithely.  "Rosalie  has  a  way  of  making  me  very 
happy  sometimes." 

Doris  caught  her  breath  suddenly,  and  crushed 
her  fingers  against  her  lips.  A  dark  shadow  came 
into  her  eyes,  and  she  looked  searchingly  into 
Rosalie's  laughing  face.  Then  she  crossed  the 
room  and  stood  by  her  father,  her  fingers  grip- 
ping his  sleeve,  and  very  soon  she  slipped  away 
up  the  stairs  and  went  to  bed.  When  Rosalie 
came  to  find  her,  she  said  she  was  tired  and 
nervous —  Wouldn't  Rosalie  say  good  night  for 
her,  and  tell  him  how  kind  he  had  been? 

When  Rosalie  repeated  the  message  to  Mr. 
MacCammon  he  looked  perturbed. 

"Isn't  she  coming  down  at  all  ?" 
242 


FINDING  THE  PATH 

"Seems  not.  But  she  is  nervous,  really,  and 
worried  about  father — and  your  kindness  has 
upset  her." 

"I'll  bet  she  is  thinking  of  that  bishop,'*  he 
said  grimly.  "You  run  up-stairs  and  talk  about 
me,  will  you?.  Tell  her  how  nice  I  am,  and  how 
handsome,  and  what  a  good  husband  I  will  make 
— put  it  on  pretty  thick,  you  know  how  it  is  done. 
A  lovely  diamond  ring  for  your  pains,  young 
lady,  if  you  play  it  right.  There's  a  nice  little 
girl." 

So  Rosalie  obediently  ran  up  and  sat  beside 
Doris  on  the  bed,  stroking  the  hot  hand,  and  say- 
ing over  and  over  how  charming  and  clever  and 
thoughtful  dear  Mr.  MacCammon  was,  and  how 
much  more  attractive  than  that  stupid  bishop,  and 
how  wonderfully  good  she  was  sure  he  would  be 
to  any  girl  who  became  his  very  own. 

And  Doris  lay  on  the  bed  quivering,  too  loyal 
to  her  sister  to  voice  a  protest,  but  lacking  the 
moral  courage  to  speak  agreement.  And  Doris 
did  not  sleep  that  night — although  she  hated  her- 
self for  being  so  sorry  over  such  a  little  thing 
243 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

as —  Well,  as  what  ?  Anyhow,  she  was  surprised, 
that  was  all — but  was  ashamed  even  to  think  of 
such  a  trifle,  in  the  face  of  father's  so  much 
greater  grief.  And  when  she  wept  softly  into  the 
pillow  she  had  to  tell  herself  over  and  over  again 
that  every  tear  was  for  father,  and  every  sob, 
and  every  bit  of  ache  that  was  in  her  heart 


CHAPTER  XIII 
ROSALIE'S  WAY 

A  THE  days  passed,  and  the  plans  for  the 
future  matured,  Rosalie  kept  shrewd  eyes 
on  her  sister's  face. 

"She  is  worried  about  father,  of  course,  but 
so  are  the  rest  of  us,  and  we  don't  act  like  that," 
she  thought  soberly.  "It  can't  be  Mr.  MacCam- 
mon,  surely,  for  he  does  not  try  to  hide  what  he 
thinks.  And  anybody  can  see  what  she  feels  to- 
ward him — anybody  but  Mr.  MacCammon,  for 
he  really  is  fussed  about  the  bishop."  And  Rosa- 
lie laughed  gleefully,  for  she  solemnly  believed 
that  no  lover  had  any  right  to  win  his  heart's  de- 
sire without  a  few  sharp  pangs  of  jealousy. 

Doris  was  pale  and  gentle  to  an  unwonted 
degree,  but  she  shirked  no  whit  of  her  responsi- 
bility. She  arranged  with  the  president  of  the 
college  for  filling  the  pulpit  during  her  father's 
245 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

absence,  and  he  acceded  to  her  request  with 
hearty  good  will. 

"If  I  can't  get  anybody  else,  I'll  do  it  myself. 
So  get  that  off  your  mind  right  away.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  I  have  quite  a  few  things  I'd  like  to 
tell  the  people  in  this  town,  but  I  never  had  the 
courage  to  do  it  with  your  father's  kindly  eyes 
upon  me.  But  with  him  out  of  the  road,  I  surely 
will  relieve  my  feelings." 

Miss  Carlton  promised  not  only  freely,  but  ful- 
somely,  to  come  and  chaperon  the  younger  girls 
during  the  week  the  others  were  in  Chicago.  And 
Mr.  Artman  was  argued  into  accepting  their 
friend's  kindly  offer  in  a  way  that  was  scientific 
to  the  highest  degree. 

On  the  morning  he  took  train  for  Chicago 
Doris  and  Rosalie,  with  their  shabby  bags,  were 
tucked  into  MacCammon's  car  among  his  port- 
folios and  manuscripts.  Curiously  enough,  Doris 
insisted  on  sitting  in  the  back  seat  alone. 

"Please,"  she  said,  when  MacCammon  and 
Rosalie  both  protested.  "I  am  so  tired  and 
fidgety.  When  I  am  in  front  I  sit  up  straight  and 
246 


ROSALIE'S  WAY  f 

watch  the  road  every  minute.  But  in  the  back  I 
can  settle  down  and  rest.  Let  Rosalie  sit  .in 
front,  she  likes  to  watch  the  road  and  get  ex- 
cited, and  squeal  when  you  spin  on  the  corners." 

Rosalie  and  MacCammon  eyed  each  other 
grimly  when  Doris  slipped  into  her  chosen  place 
without  waiting  for  the  help  of  a  friendly  hand. 

"The  bishop,"  whispered  MacCammon  omi- 
nously. 

"The  bishop  your  grandmother,"  thought  Ro- 
salie, turning  around  to  squint  thoughtfully  at 
her  sister. 

The  first  twenty-five  miles  were  traversed  in 
absolute  silence,  MacCammon  driving  with  grim 
and  rigid  energy,  Rosalie  looking  through  half- 
closed  lids  reflectively  into  space,  Doris  crouch- 
ing in  the  corner  of  the  back  seat  alone. 

Thirty-five  miles — and  then  MacCammon 
laughed  suddenly. 

"Hang  the  bishop,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

Rosalie  laughed  with  him.  "You  can't  hang 
him — it  isn't  orthodox." 

"Burn  him  at  the  stake  then.  She  hasn't — 
247 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

Anyhow,  I  don't — I  am  not  going  to  get  cold  feet 
yet —  That —  There  is  no  reason — " 

"Faint  heart,"  scoffed  Rosalie. 

"All  right,  I  am  game.  Suppose  you  drive  a 
while."  Turning  to  Doris,  he  said,  "Rosalie  is 
going  to  drive  a  while,  and  I  am  coming  back  to 
help  hold  down  the  back  seat.  Don't  argue.  You 
know  very  well  the  back  seat  is  too  bumpy  for  one 
little  light  girl  by  herself.  You  need  not  hurry, 
Rosalie,"  he  said,  surrendering  the  wheel.  "Doris 
is  cross,  and  I  have  to  reason  with  her.  It  takes 
time.  You  need  not  listen  unless  you  particularly 
wish." 

He  got  into  the  back  seat  serenely  enough,  and 
looked  astonished  when  Doris  withdrew  to  the 
farthest  corner  of  the  roomy  seat. 

"What  is  the  matter?  Does  the  seat  slope  over 
to  that  corner?  That  is  a  shame,  I  must  have  it 
fixed."  And  he  sat  down  very  comfortably  in 
the  middle  of  the  seat,  where  Doris  could  not  pos- 
sibly keep  the  hem  of  her  gown  from  touching 
him,  nor  even  her  rigid  elbow,  though  it  plainly 
was  her  desire. 

248 


ROSALIE'S  WAY 

Rosalie  drove  with  a  nicety  of  concentration 
that  was  most  commendable,  but  Doris  was  stiffly 
mute  to  his  overtures.  And  in  spite  of  his  per- 
sistent and  determined  tender  chaffing,  he  was 
really  calling  down  anathemas  on  the  head  of  the 
offending  bishop  by  the  time  they  reached  Au- 
rora, 

"Let's  find  a  place  to  eat.  I  am  hungry.  I  have 
done  a  hard  day's  work.  Digging  ditches  has 
nothing  on  that,"  he  said  to  Rosalie. 

She  nodded  sympathetically.  "Think  well  be- 
fore it  is  too  late,"  she  warned.  "Women  are 
always  like  that — they  go  by  spells.  Sometimes 
they  are  and  then  sometimes  they  are  not." 

"Chiefly  they  are  not,  I  perceive,"  he  said 
doggedly.  "She  liked  me  well  enough  while  I 
remained  a  mystery." 

"Well,  of  course—" 

"If  you  say  bishop  to  me  again  I'll  stone  you," 
He  cried,  and  Rosalie  only  laughed. 

By  this  time  Doris  had  finished  patting  her 
Hair  before  the  small  mirror  in  her  bag,  and 
joined  them  quietly.  But  she  was  not  hungry,  she 
249 


LEAVE  IT  TQ  DORIS 

drank  two  cups  of  very  strong  coffee — and  Mr. 
MacCammon  suddenly  was  not  hungry  either. 
Rosalie  munched  comfortably  through  six  courses 
and  when  she  reached  her  ice-cream  and  maca- 
roons she  told  MacCammon  he  might  run  along 
and  get  the  gas  if  he  liked  while  she  was  finish- 
ing, which  he  promptly  did.  As  soon  as  he  was 
gone  she  looked  at  her  sister  slyly. 

"General — I — may  I  confide  something — in 
you?" 

Doris  stiffened  instantly,  and  turned  a  frigid 
face  that  way.  "Yes,"  she  said  somberly,  "go  on, 
let's  get  it  over  with.  I  have  been  expecting  'it 
for  some  time.'* 

A  mischievous  smile  darted  to  Rosalie's  eyes, 
but  the  shielding  lashes  hid  it.  "I — Do  you  think 
I  am  too  young  to  fall  in  love  ?" 

"No,"  said  Doris  desperately,  "I  do  not.  I 
don't  think  anybody  is  too  young,  or  too  old,  or 
< — anything." 

"Age  has  nothing  to  do  with  love,  has  it  ?" 

"No,  age  hasn't,  nor  brains,  nor  sense,  nor  dig- 
250 


ROSALIE'S  WAY 

jiity,  nor — sometimes  I  think  even  religion  hasn't 
anything  to  do  with  love." 

"Of  course  I  may  be  mistaken — " 

"No  chance." 

"But  he  is  so  dear  and  nice,  and  though  he  has 
not  proposed — still  I  know  he  is' infatuated  with 
me — and  when  he  finishes  school — he  is  a  senior 
now,  you  know,  and  then  he  can  marry  if  he 
likes." 

Doris  looked  up,  a  sudden  shining  through  the 
clouds.  "He— what?" 

"He  graduates  this  year.  He  is  a  senior.  But 
we  are  not  engaged,  not  by  any  means.  Only 
sometimes  I  think  maybe  I  am  not  too  young  to 
fall  in  love.  Bob  Alden,  you  know." 

Doris  leaned  weakly  back  in  her  chair. 

"Are  you  joking?"  she  whispered  with  dry 
lips. 

"Oh,  Doris,  I  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing." 

"Am  I  just  imagining  things  or — " 

"Yes,  I  think  you  are." 

"Oh,  Rosalie,  you  bad  little  girl,  what  have 
251 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

you  done?  I  really  believe  Mr,  MacCammon 
likes  you." 

"Likes  me!  Ye  gods,  aren't  some  folks  blind? 
I  can  always  tell  when  men  are  stuck  on  me  long 
before  they  can  tell  it  themselves,  but  some  folks 
are  so  slow.  You  are  a  stupid  girl,  Doris,  I  have 
no  patience  with  you.  Poor  dear  Mr.  MacCam- 
mon and  the  bishop,  too — both  of  them — I  think 
it  is  downright  reprehensible,  to  dangle  a  bishop 
and  a  psychological  philosopher  at  the  same  time. 
I  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing." 

Doris  glimmered  softly,  the  old  Doris  strug- 
gling weakly  but  jubilantly  back  to  her  own 
again. 

"Oh,  Rosalie,  don't  talk  about  the  bishop,"  she 
said. 

MacCammon  was  waiting  for  them  at  the  car, 
with  several  magazines  and  boxes  of  candy  on 
hand  to  help  give  the  car  a  professionally  tour- 
ing appearance.  And  after  the  chill  fog  of  the 
last  week,  Doris  came  to  him,  gleaming  and 
glowing. 

"I  am  all  rested  now,"  she  said,  smiling  tremu- 
252 


ROSALIE'S  WAY 

lously.  "Please,  Mr.  Wizard,  may  I  ride  in 
front?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  astonishment  more  ut- 
terly blank  than  ever.  Then  he  looked  helplessly 
at  Rosalie,  humming  brightly  to  herself  as  she 
picked  out  the  largest  box  of  candy  to  take  with 
her  into  the  back  seat. 

"Can  you  beat  that?  They  are,  and  then  they 
aren't.  And  when  you  just  about  get  your  mind 
made  up  that  they  aren't,  and  no  use  to  talk  about 
it,  all  of  a  sudden  they  are.  And  nobody  ever 
knows  why,  or  how  it  happened." 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  asked  Doris 
curiously. 

"Psychology,  dear  Doris.  Please  get  in  quickly 
— yes,  here  in  front — oh,  this  seat  slopes  toward 
the  middle,  does  it?  Fine!  Well,  as  I  was  say- 
ing, do  you  think  I'd  better  tie  you  in  before  you 
decide  you  aren't?  And  as  for  psychology,  there 
is  no  such  thing — not  in  a  world  that  has  women." 

It  did  seem  rather  heartless  to  be  so  ecstatically 
happy  when  poor  dear  father  was  having  such 
trouble,  but  then,  Doris  thought  philosophically, 
253 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

that  is  what  religion  is  for — to  make  us  happy 
even  in  spite  of  our  grief. 

The  rest  of  the  ride  was  wonderful,  through 
such  gloriously  beautiful  country,  and  as  for  the 
dust — it  was  nothing,  and  the  car  ran  like  velvet, 
and  almost  before  they  knew  it  they  were  settled 
in  their  little  borrowed  apartment,  laughing  at 
the  tininess  of  it,  and  getting  ready  for  MacCam- 
mon,  who  had  gone  to  break  his  presence  to  his 
friend. 

He  came  for  them  at  six  o'clock  and  took  them 
out  to  dinner  with  him,  ordering  the  dishes  so 
carefully  and  with  such  sweet  regard  for  their 
youthful  appetites — but  after  all,  they  could  not 
eat,  for  the  shadow  of  the  operation  was  settling 
upon  them.  Yet  how  much  better  it  was  to  be 
here  in  the  big  city  within  reach  of  father's  kindly 
hand  than  to  be  away  off  in  the  manse  quivering 
with  the  anxiety  of  what  they  did  not  know  and 
could  not  guess,  with  only  telegraph  wires  to  link 
them  each  to  each  ? 

It  seemed  MacCammon  would  never  be  done 
with  that  sickening  apple  pie,  but  after  an  endless 
254 


ROSALIE'S  WAY 

time  they  were  really  tripping  softly,  breathlessly, 
along  the  hall  of  the  hospital  in  the  wake  of  the 
"rubber-soled  nurse,"  as  Rosalie  naughtily  chris- 
tened -her.  And  there  was  father  sitting  alone  in 
a  white  room,  "his  eyes  bandaged  closely.  He 
knew  they  were  there  before  they  spoke,  and  held 
out  his  hands  to  them,  warmly  impulsive.  And 
they  sat  on  the  arms  of  his  chair  and  petted  the 
opposite  sides  of  his  head,  and  talked  quietly  and 
sensibly,  as  if  the  operation  were  nothing  at  all. 

But  almost  immediately  the  door  opened  again, 
and  a  man —  Yes,  a  minister —  That  blessed 
bishop,  of  course — MacCammon  glared  at  him — 
How  long  the  fellow  was  holding  Doris'  hand ! — 
Right  before  her  father — and  Doris  was  letting 
him! —  Well,  couldn't  he  see  that  Rosalie  was 
there,  too — and  a  stranger? 

"Your  father  said  you  would  be  here,  so  I 
stayed  to  speak  to  you." 

"Yes,  and  I  came,  too,  Bishop,"  said  Rosalie 
brightly.  "You  must  not  overlook  me." 

MacCammon  blessed  her  for  the  words.  For 
the  bishop  dropped  Doris'  hand  hurriedly  and 
255 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

turned  to  her —  What  in  the  world  could  the 
church  be  thinking  of,  to  have  bishops  as  young 
as  that? 

"I  do  not  believe  he's  as  old  as  I  am,  and  I  am 
not  old  at  all,"  thought  MacCammon  resentfully. 
"And  they  call  him  a  father  in  the  church.  What 
are  we  coming  to,  anyhow  ?" 

Doris  was  back  at  her  father's  side  now,  where 
she  belonged,  and  MacCammon  was  being  intro- 
duced to  the  bishop.  They  sized  each  other  up 
very  frankly. 

"I'll  bet  he  resents  me  as  much  as  I  do  him, 
that's  some  satisfaction,"  MacCammon  thought 
with  boyish  relish.  "And  I  brought  her  up,  too, 
all  that  long  way — that  will  cut." 

They  did  not  stay  very  long — a  gentle  move- 
ment of  the  rubber-soled  one's  eyebrow  hurried 
their  departure. 

The  bishop  could  not  accept  MacCammon's  in- 
vitation to  come  with  them  in  the  car,  because  he 
had  his  own  little  runabout.  But  wouldn't  Miss 
Doris  come  with  him  for  a  run  through  the  park, 
256 


ROSALIE'S  WAY 

and  along  the  lake   front?     MacCammon  held 
his  breath.   Would  she? 

Doris  put  out  her  hand,  quietly  but  cordially. 
"I  know  you  will  excuse  me  to-night,  Bishop.  I 
do  not  feel  like  talking,  or — anything — just  like 
going  home  quietly  with  Rosalie  to  think." 

Never  had  MacCammon  loved  her  as  he  did 
at  that  moment.  The  bishop  walked  down  with 
her  to  the  car  and  opened  the  back  door  for  the 
girls. 

"But  it  is  my  turn  to  sit  in  front,"  said  Doris, 
smiling  faintly.  "We  think  it  would  be  unfair 
to  let  Mr.  MacCammon  sit  alone  when  he  is  driv- 
ing us.  And  Rosalie  and  I  always  have  each 
other,  you  know." 

So  the  bishop  had  to  help  her  into  the  car — 
MacCammon's  car — and  into  the  front  seat  with 
MacCammon  himself,  and  the  bishop  had  to 
stand  on  the  curb  while  they  drove  off.  No  won- 
der MacCammon  was  whistling  softly  to  himself. 
With  Doris  out  of  the  question,  the  bishop  was 
a  nice  enough  fellow,  clean,  clear-cut,  straight- 
257 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

forward — but  with  Doris  in  the  question  he  was 
an  eternal  nuisance  and  a  bore.  And  MacCam- 
mon  could  never  get  Doris  out  of  his  questions 
any  more. 

"Will  you  come  up?"  she  asked  as  they  drew 
up  beside  the  apartment. 

"Not  to-night,"  he  said  softly.  "But  thank  you 
for  asking."  She  had  not  asked  the  bishop.  "To- 
night you  girls  must  run  straight  to  bed  and  rest, 
and  I  will  come  for  you  to  go  with  me  in  the 
morning.  No,  you  must  not  try  to  cook  until  the 
operation  is  over.  I  will  eat  with  you  after  that 
to  even  up.  I  know  a  grand  place  for  hot  cakes 
and  sirup — very  close.  Good  night,  Rosalie,  you 
are  a  good  little  scout,"  he  called,  as  she  started 
up  the  stairs.  Then  he  drew  Doris  into  a  shadowy 
corner  and  said,  "You  must  not  worry,  Doris. 
Rosalie  is  taking  this  better  than  you  are.  Hasn't 
your  religion  taught  you  that  things  work  out 
just  right  for — men — like  your  father — who  are 
whole-souled  and  pure-minded  ?" 

"Christians,  you  mean,"  said  Doris,  smiling  at 
his  evident  desire  to  avoid  the  tone  of  preaching. 
258 


ROSALIE'S  WAY 

"Yes,  I  know.  I  do  believe  that  things  will  come 
right  eventually,  and  I  do  not  worry — much. 
But  father  is  too  good  to  suffer,  and  be  hurt.  It 
should  have  been  some  one  else." 

"Oh,  Doris,  don't  you  know  that  your  father 
will  have  more  tenderness  and  more  gentleness 
for  all  sickness  and  all  suffering,  after  he  himself 
has  suffered?  Before  this,  he  has  spoken  kind- 
ness. Now  he  will  live  it.  It  takes  the  ultimate 
caress  of  pain  to  give  us  understanding." 

Doris  moved  her  hands  softly  in  his. 

"Yes,  you  must  go."  He  put  his  arms  around 
her,  and  her  face  fell  against  his  shoulder.  "Go, 
dear  Doris,  and  dream  of  sweet  and  lovely  things 
— your  father  strong  and  well  and  tenderer  than 
ever — and  dream  of  me,  not  very  good,  I  know, 
but — very  fond  of  you.  And  please  forget  the 
bishop." 

Doris  laughed  at  that,  quickly,  breathlessly. 
"I  will,  just  for  to-night,"  she  promised. 

"No,  for  all  the  nights." 

He  kissed  her  hair  where  it  curled  beneath  the 
blue  motor  hat,  warmly,  tenderly — for  somehow 
259 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

he  felt  that  this  night  of  her  anxious  sorrow  was 
not  the  time  to  press  the  kiss  of  love  upon  her  lips, 
though  he  knew  in  his  heart  it  would  not  have 
been  denied  him. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   DOCTOR 

IT  SEEMED  very  terrible  to  the  two  girls  to 
stay  there  quietly  waiting  in  their  father's 
painfully  bright  room  at  the  hospital  until  he  was 
brought  back  to  them  on  the  wheeled  table  from 
the  operating-room.  They  could  not  speak.  Doris 
sat  with  her  hands  clenched  tightly  in  her  lap, 
with  Rosalie  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  leaning 
against  her.  MacCammon  stood  beside  the  win- 
dow, coming  to  the  girls  now  and  then  to  give 
them  reassuring  pats  and  smiles,  and  then  going 
back  to  the  window.  Presently  a  nurse  came  in, 
carefully  darkened  the  room,  and  put  water  bot- 
tles and  flannels  in  the  bed.  She  smiled  encour- 
agingly at  the  girls,  who  tried  very  hard  to  twist 
their  lips  into  a  semblance  of  good  cheer  in  re- 
turn. 

Then  the  table  was   wheeled   in  again,   and 
261 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

father  was  slipped  deftly  back  into  the  bed,  and 
the  doctor  was  talking  to  them  brightly,  arnj 
smiling. 

"Just  fine.  Worked  like  a  charm.  Why,  when 
I  think  of  how  that  man  must  have  suffered  for 
the  last  months —  Why,  it  is  preposterous —  It 
is  downright —  Anyhow,  it  is  over  now." 

The  girls  did  not  speak. 

"Come  on  down-stairs  and  let's  beg  some  cof- 
fee. It  does  not  seem  particularly  cold  to-day, 
but  you  folks  give  me  a  chilly  sensation." 

"And  leave  father?"  gasped  Doris. 

"Why  not?  And  why  do  you  whisper?  Your 
father,  my  dear,  will  have  a  nice  quiet  rest  for  an 
hour  or  so,  and  there  is  no  reason  why  we  should 
sit  here  in  the  dark  and  hear  him  breathe.  Come 
on,  MacCammon,  don't  you  need  a  tonic?" 

"Are  you  sure  he  is  all  right?"  asked  Doris, 
looking  closely  at  her  father's  face,  showing  grim 
and  rigid  in  the  darkened  room.  "He  looks  very 
sick." 

"He  looks  sick,  my  dear,  but  he  is  all  right. 
The  operation  was  absolutely  successful  to  the 
262 


THE  DOCTOR 

minutest  degree.  You  do  not  think  he  is  going  to 
die,  do  you?" 

"Doctors  are  strange,"  said  Rosalie  in  a  hushed 
voice.  "How  do  you  know  he  will  come  out  from 
the  anesthetic?" 

"Because  he  is  out  from  the  danger  of  it  now. 
Only  he  does  not  know  it  yet.  His  heart  is  pump- 
ing away,  and  he  is  breathing  normally,  and  in  a 
few  hours  he  will  be  wide  awake.  Come  now, 
don't  argue  with  me.  Your  father  has  .spoiled 
you,  I  see  that.  I  would  never  allow  any  argu- 
ment, if  I  had  girls  of  my  own.  But  I  haven't 
any." 

"Are  you  married?"  asked  Doris  with  some 
interest. 

"No,  I  am  not  married.  But  I  know  how  I 
would  rear  my  daughters." 

"Sure  you  do,"  laughed  MacCammon.  "So  do 
I.  All  of  us  unmarried  fellows  know  all  about 
rearing  daughters.  Come  on,  girls,  we  may  as 
well  go  quietly  and  try  to  live  at  peace  with  this 
quarrelsome  creature  your  father  has  pushed  on 
to  us." 

263 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

The  girls  passed  slowly  from  the  room,  but 
their  faces  brightened  a  little  when  one  of  the 
nurses  said: 

"Don't  worry.  The  doctor  is  right.  The  dan- 
ger is  all  over.  We  do  not  know  yet  just  how  fine 
the  eyes  will  be — but  the  danger  is  gone.  Run 
along  and  get  your  coffee.  .Your  father  will  sleep 
a  long  time." 

"Then  may  we  wire  the  girls  now — that  he  is 
all  right  ?  I  know  they  will  be  anxious." 

"Yes,  indeed,  wire  them  at  once.  Tell  them 
there  is  no  danger,  and  we  are  sure  the  eyes  will 
be  infinitely  better — certainly  there  will  be  no 
more  headaches  and  pain.  And  cheer  up." 

After  the  telegram  was  safely  on  its  way  it 
seemed  quite  natural  for  the  four  of  them  to  sit 
at  a  small  table  in  the  nurses'  dining-room,  sip- 
ping the  hot  coffee,  realizing  that  after  all  they 
were  alive,  and  father  was  nearly  all  right,  and 
things  were  going  on  just  the  same  as  before  he 
had  kissed  them  good-by  and  gone  into  the  grim 
white  room  that  held  so  many  terrors  for  them. 
264 


THE  DOCTOR 

After  their  coffee  the  doctor  took  them  around 
the  hospital  with  him,  introducing  them  to  min- 
isters here  and  there.  They  smiled  at  a  few  whom 
the  doctor  frankly  pronounced  cases  of  chronic 
grouch,  and  were  smiled  at  by  other,  very  sick 
ones,  who,  the  doctor  declared,  were  endowed 
with  an  abundant  and  all-pervading  Christianity 
that  kept  their  dispositions  riotously  pleasant  in 
spite  of  physical  pain.  And  then  he  invited  them 
to  come  with  him  in  his  car  to  call  on  another 
patient  of  his  down  the  road  a  way — "one  of  the 
greatest  living  testimonies  to  the  efficacy  of  the 
Christian  religion,  because  he  has  the  most  pro- 
nounced absence  of  it  of  any  one  I  have  ever 
seen." 

The  girls  hesitated,  wanting  to  get  back  to 
their  father,  but  he  would  brook  no  opposition. 

"He  will  not  know  you  are  there.  He  will  be 
laughing  or  crying  or  making  love  to  the  nurse, 
maybe  using  a  little  strong  language  on  the  side, 
and  it  will  be  no  pleasure  to  him  to  have  a  wit- 
ness, and  no  pleasure  to  you — and  you  will  be  a 
265 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

pleasure  to  me,  so  that  settles  it.  Come  along, 
while  you  have  the  chance,  for  I  shall  not  have 
time  to  bother  with  you  after  to-day." 

And  he  crowded  them  into  his  small  car  and 
carried  them  off  to  inspect  the  "awfully  un-Chris- 
tian  patient,"  who  looked  at  them  sharply  when 
the  doctor  presented  them. 

"If  he  told  you  I  am  an  infidel,  he  is  a  liar/' 
said  the  old  man,  looking  suspiciously  at  the  doc- 
tor's placid  face.  "I  was  the  treasurer  of  a 
church — " 

"Yes,  he  was,"  said  the  doctor,  sniffing.  "He 
was  treasurer  of  a  church  for  three  years,  and 
now  he  is  a  millionaire.  Draw  your  own  con- 
clusions." 

"I  have  been  a  church-member  all  my  life." 

"Yes,  he  has,"  snorted  the  doctor.  "To  the 
everlasting  disgrace  of  the  church,  I  must  ad- 
mit it." 

"I  have  contributed — " 

"You  have  contributed  to  the  unhappiness  of 
more  poor  people  than  anybody  else  in  Chicago, 
and  you  know  it,"  said  the  doctor  curtly. 
266 


THE  DOCTOR 

"If  you  weren't  the  best  doctor  in  town  I  would 
discharge  you." 

"If  I  did  not  intend  to  bleed  you  out  of  half 
your  fortune  before  you  die  I  would  not  'tend  to 
you  another  day,"  snapped  the  doctor. 

The  girls  looked  on  in  silent  horror.  Mac- 
Cammon  smiled  appreciatively.  The  patient  was 
lying  helpless  under  the  doctor's  skilful  hands, 
obeying  his  orders  with  child-like  confidence,  and 
the  doctor  was  ministering  to  the  physical  needs 
of  the  old  man  with  tender  professional  touches. 
But  all  the  while  the  patient  glared  venomously 
up  into  the  doctor's  face  and  the  doctor  glowered 
back. 

"Turn  over,"  said  the  doctor  sharply. 

"Ain't  he  polite  ?"  sneered  the  old  man.  "Ain't 
he  a  perfect  gentleman  ?"  But  he  did  not  hesitate 
to  obey  the  doctor's  word. 

"Now  turn  back.  I  did  not  want  anything. 
Just  wanted  to  see  if  it  would  hurt  you  to  move. 
There's  nothing  the  matter  with  you  anyhow  but 
an  overdose  of  devil  germs.  You've  bulldozed 
and  browbeaten  so  many  people  for  so  many 
267 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

years  that  you've  got  a  calloused  heart  and  a  cal- 
loused soul.  It  gives  you  indigestion.  That's  all 
that  ails  you — spiritual  indigestion." 

Doris  came  forward  with  gentle  sympathy  and 
laid  a  slender  hand  on  the  man's  shoulder. 

"He  is  a  bad  doctor.  This  is  no  time  to  throw 
up  your  weaknesses,  is  it?" 

"Well,"  admitted  the  old  man,  "he  is  a  fiend, 
but  he  is  a  good  doctor.  All  the  rest  gave  me  up 
to  die — and  he  came,  and  operated — it  was  a  ter- 
rible operation  on  the  brain — and  I  am  nearly 
well.  He  is  a  good  doctor — but  he  is  a  fiend.  But 
then,  if  it  comes  to  that,  I  haven't  been  an  angel 
myself." 

Doris  could  not  help  laughing. 

"An  angel.  I  am  surprised  you  know  the 
word,"  scoffed  the  doctor.'  "You  wouldn't  recog- 
nize an  angel  if  you  ran  into  one.  Your  eyes  are 
blind  to  everything  but  the  dollar-mark.  If  you 
ever  get  to  Heaven,  your  crown  will  be  made  up 
of  dollar  bills  instead  of  diamonds." 

"If  you  ever  get  to  Heaven  you  won't  have 
any  crown  at  all.  Just  a  hypodermic  needle  to  go 
268 


THE  DOCTOR 

around  sticking  into  poor  angels  that  trust  you, 
and  you'll  have  crutches  to  play  on  'stead  of  a 
harp." 

"Well,  come  on,  girls.  You  have  had  enough. 
Don't  let  him  soak  into  your  dispositions." 

The  girls  put  out  soft  and  timid  hands  to  say 
good-by,  and  the  old  man  took  them  bashfully, 
blushing  beneath  their  friendly  eyes. 

"If  you  are  still  alive,  I  shall  see  you  Wednes- 
day, but  I  have  hopes,"  said  the  doctor. 

"It  would  be  a  pleasure  to  die  just  to  get  away 
from  you,"  shouted  the  old  man  after  him. 

"Doctor,  that  was  terrible,"  said  Doris.  "How 
could  you  do  it  ?  The  poor  sick  old  man !" 

The  doctor  only  laughed. 

"You  may  as  well  make  up  your  mind  to  sit- 
ting with  me,"  he  said  to  Rosalie,  helping  her 
into  the  front  seat.  "You  do  not  seem  absolutely 
essential  to  their  happiness,  do  you  ?" 

"Not  absolutely,  no.   But  I  tell  you  right  npw 
if  you  begin  on  me  as  you  talked  to  the  old  man, 
I  shall  fall  right  out  and  get  run  over.  Like  him> 
I  think  death  is  preferable." 
269 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Sometimes  I  feel  that  I  missed  my  calling," 
said  the  doctor  in  a  genial  tone.  "I  believe  in  my 
heart  I  should  have  been  a  minister." 

"Oh,  mercy!"  gasped  Rosalie. 

"Why,  my  dear  little  girl,  do  you  think  I  was 
hard  on  the  old  bird?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  He  told 
you  the  truth — he  would  have  died  except  for  me. 
I  have  simply  goaded  him  into  strength.  He  lives 
to  spite  me.  And  I  not  only  brace  him  up  physi- 
cally, I  am  helping  his  soul."  The  doctor  said  this 
complacently,  and  was  greeted  by  derisive  laugh- 
ter. 

"Fact,  for  all  you  may  laugh.  Twice  since  I 
have  had  him  he  has  extended  mortgages.  First 
time  he  ever  did  such  a  thing  in  his  life.  His 
lawyers  think  he  is  in  his  dotage.  The  trouble 
with  him  is  that  he  never  caught  the  connection 
between  religion  and  business — he  practised  them 
both,  separately,  and  consistently.  But  when  it 
came  to  religion  he  never  used  his  brains — he 
gave  to  everything  the  minister  advised,  whether 
it  was  sensible  or  not,  just  because  the  minister 
advised  it — and  he  sat  around  and  prayed  to  any 
270 


THE  DOCTOR 

old  mutt  of  a  preacher,  just  because  he  was  a 
reverend.  No  business  sense  about  it.  And  then 
when  it  came  to  business,  he  did  not  let  his  re- 
ligion interfere.  I  am  the  connecting  link  between 
his  religion  and  his  business — and  I  expect  to 
make  a  man  of  him.  I  think  in  time  I  shall  work 
out  his  soul's  salvation.  Quite  seriously,  I  be- 
lieve I  would  have  made  a  cracking  good  min- 
ister." 

Then  he  took  them  back  to  the  hospital  and  up 
to  their  father's  room.  Doris  stepped  quickly  to 
the  bedside. 

"Doris?   Is  it  my  little  girl?" 

"Yes,  you  dear  father,  Doris  and  Rosalie  are 
here." 

They  sat  beside  the  bed,  one  on  either  side, 
and  stroked  his  hands  tenderly,  glad  tears  stream- 
ing down  their  faces.  After  a  time,  when  he 
thought  he  could  control  his  voice,  he  said : 

"Girls,  I  am  sorry — but  I  am  quite  blind.  I  can 
hear  you,  but  I  see  nothing." 

"Oh,  dearest,"  cried  Doris  brokenly,  "of  course 
you  can't.  Your  eyes  are  bandaged.  You  are  not 
271 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

supposed  to  see  yet.   You  must  wait.   The  opera- 
tion was  a  perfect  success." 

"Why,  my  dear  old  fellow,"  said  the  doctor 
in  an  annoyed  tone,  "do  you  think  I  am  a  miracle 
man?  You  are  not  supposed  to  step  right  out  of 
the  ether  into  the  broad  light.  You  are  a  dandy, 
sure  enough.  Aren't  these  preachers  the  limit? 
Growling  because  he  can't  see  when  he  is  plas- 
tered up  in  ten  inches  of  cotton." 

The  minister  laughed,  softly,  happily.  "It  was 
foolish.  I  see  it  now,  of  course.  But  it  gave  me 
a  terrible  jar.  I  was  sure  I  was  blind." 

So  while  the  girls  sat  beside  him  the  doctor  and 
MacCammon  went  away  to  leave  them  alone  for 
a  while. 

"The  real  tug  will  come  when  he  gets  home," 
said  the  doctor.  "He  has  no  business  to  use  his 
eyes  for  at  least  six  months.  He  ought  to  play 
for  fully  half  a  year.  But  he  does  not  know  how 
to  play.  That  is  the  worst  of  these  preachers — > 
they  get  so  used  to  the  grind,  grind,  grind,  that 
they  can't  let  up.  What  we'll  do  with  him  for  the 
next  six  months  is  more  than  I  can  figure  out." 
272 


THE  DOCTOR 

"The  girls  will  think  of  something.  They  are 
wonderful  girls." 

"Yes,  very.  Rosalie  in  particular,"  said  the 
doctor. 

"Doris  in  particular  also,"  supplemented  Mac- 
Cammon  quickly.  "He  can  preach,  can't  he?  I 
imagine  he  will  need  the  money." 

"Yes,  he  can  preach  if  he's  got  it  in  his  head. 
He  can't  do  any  reading." 

"It  will  not  be  easy.  But  we  can  leave  it  to 
Doris  all  right." 

"That  Rosalie  is  a  lovely  girl — a  beautiful 
girl,"  said  the  doctor  warmly. 

"They  both  are,"  came  quickly. 

"Oh,  get  out.  Can't  you  take  anything  imper- 
sonally? Don't  come  mooning  around  to  me.  I 
have  troubles  enough  of  my  own.  I  say  that  Ro- 
salie is  lovelier  than  your  Doris,  has  a  better  fig- 
ure, finer  hair,  more  attractive  features,  and  in- 
finitely better  eyes,  and  if  you  don't  like  it,  go  to 
thunder,"  and  the  doctor  went  out  quickly,  laugh- 
ing, and  slammed  the  door  behind  him. 


CHAPTER  XV 

RISING    TO    THE    MANSE 

IN  ANSWER  to  intense  and  persistent  plead- 
ing on  the  part  of  Treasure  and  Zee,  the  girls 
decided  to  remain  in  Chicago  until  their  father 
also  returned  home.  It  did  not  seem  at  all  expen- 
sive living  in  the  big  city,  thanks  partly,  of  course, 
to  the  continued  hospitality  of  MacCammon  and 
the  bishop,  and  the  doctor,  and  other  friends  of 
the  Presbyterian  fold.  And  since  school  was 
practically  out  anyhow,  Rosalie  knew  she  was 
missing  nothing  except  good  times,  and  there 
never  was  a  time  good  enough  to  tempt  her  away 
from  her  father  when  he  so  evidently  enjoyed 
her  presence. 

It  was  very  surprising,  of  course,  that  those 

unaccountable  little  mischiefs  at  home  were  so 

happy  in  the  presence  of  Miss  Carlton,  whom 

they  had  never  particularly  admired.    But  since 

274 


RISING  TO  THE  MANSE 

they  insisted,  and  since  father  did  say  it  was 
sweet  to  have  them  with  him,  and  since  Mac- 
Cammon  had  developed  a  strange  partiality  for 
the  young  girls  at  home,  strongly  seconding  every 
suggestion  they  made,  Doris  and  Rosalie  lingered 
in  Chicago.  Their  father's  strength  returned  rap- 
idly, and  although  he  was  kept  in  constant  heavy 
shadow,  there  were  many  good  and  rollicking 
times  for  all  of  them.  And  in  spite  of  the  doc- 
tor's open  declaration  that  he  would  never  have 
time  to  bother  with  them  after  the  first  day,  he 
did  find  many,  many  hours  to  while  away  in  their 
gentle  but  merry  presence. 

"You  are  sure  you  have  time?  You  are  sure 
there  is  nobody  clamoring  for  you  to  come  and 
cut  them  to  pieces?"  Rosalie  would  say  sweetly. 

And  the  doctor  was  always  comfortably  and 
confidently  sure. 

And  when  at  last  the  day  came  for  getting 
ready  to  return  home  he  hung  around  the  little 
apartment  sitting  on  things  they  wished  to  pack 
and  getting  in  the  way  of  suit-cases  and  bags  that 
needed  to  be  moved,  seeming  quite  to  forget  that 
275 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

he  was  a  famous  surgeon  and  that  people  were 
waiting  patiently  for  him  to  wield  his  knife. 

"If  anybody  urged  me  particularly  I  think  I'd 
take  a  day  off  and  go  home  with  you.  Your 
father  may  need  attention  when  he  gets  there,  and 
I  need  a  vacation,  and  I  could  come  back  on  the 
night  train.  But  nobody  thinks  of  inviting  me, 
of  course." 

"Please  come,"  said  Doris  promptly. 

"I  won't  invite  you,"  said  MacCammon  point- 
edly. "The  girls  think  you  are  responsible  for 
saving  their  father's  eyes — though  anybody  else 
could  have  done  it  just  as  well — and  when  you 
are  around  nobody  pays  any  attention  to  me  at 
all.  So  I  think  you'd  better  stay  in  Chicago, 
where  you  belong." 

"There  you  are — isn't  that  gratitude  for  you  ?" 

"Don't  mind  him,"  said  Doris.  "I  am  the  Gen- 
eral. Do  as  I  say." 

He  looked  hopefully  at  Rosalie. 

"They  sit  in  the  front  seat  and  entertain  them- 
selves," she  said,  "and  never  bother  about  me 
alone  in  the  rear.  I  invite  you  to  come  and  sil; 
276 


RISING  TO  THE  MANSE 

;with  me,  and  let's  not  say  a  word  to  them  all  the 
way  home." 

He  accepted  that  invitation  immediately  and 
rushed  off  to  make  arrangements  to  keep  his  pa- 
tients alive  until  his  return. 

Zee  had  insisted  most  strongly  that  the  whole 
family  should  arrive  home  at  the  same  identical 
minute,  and  not  come  stringing  in  all  day,  keeping 
them  upset,  and  MacCammon,  with  his  usual  loy- 
alty to  her,  said  flatly  it  must  be  done. 

"It  can't  be  done,"  protested  Doris.  "The  doc- 
tor will  not  let  father  go  in  the  car,  and  how  can 
we  get  there  the  same  minute?" 

"We  shall  start  early  in  the  morning,  and  your 
father  will  go  on  the  noon  train.  Then  we  shall 
plan  to  get  to  town  just  exactly  at  two-twenty- 
seven,  meet  the  train,  pick  your  father  up  bodily, 
and  carry  him  home  in  triumph." 

"It  can't  be  done." 

"If  Zee  says,  'Do  it,'  it  shall  be  done,"  said 

MacCammon  decidedly.    "Her  confidence  in  me 

must  not  be  shattered.    We  leave  this  town  at 

eight-thirty  to-morrow — allowing  time  for  blow- 

277 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

outs  and  quarrels  en  route.  And  if  we  see  we  are 
getting  in  early,  we'll  stop  beneath  a  big  tree  out- 
side of  town  and  point  out  the  scenery  to  the  doc- 
tor, who  does  not  know  anything  about  any  kind 
of  scenery  except  bones  and  skin." 

"But  father—" 

"Oh,  the  bishop  can  get  him  on  the  train  and 
start  him  home.  That's  all  bishops  are  good  for," 
said  MacCammon  imperturbably.  And  he  made 
the  arrangement  himself  to  the  intense  delight 
of  Rosalie,  who  giggled  at  his  elbow  all  the  time 
he  was  discussing  the  plan  with  the  bishop. 

Then  came  the  long  lovely  ride  home,  Doris 
and  MacCammon  blissfully  content  in  the  front: 
seat,  and  the  doctor  taking  a  most  unprofessional 
interest  in  Rosalie's  softness  and  girlishness  and 
gurgliness  in  the  tonneau. 

"Oh,  Rosalie,"  Doris  said  to  her  teasingly 
when  they  were  in  the  dressing-room  at  the  hotel 
"smoothening  up"  for  luncheon.  "Oh,  Rosalie, 
dear,  do  you  still — er — wonder  if  you  are  too 
young  to  fall  in  love — with  a  senior?" 

Rosalie  laughed  brightly.  "I  have  decided, 
278 


RISING  TO  THE  MANSE 

General,  that  I  am  not  too  young  to  fall  in  love 
with — anybody."  And  then  she  added,  "But  I 
know  now  that  seniors  are  quite  too  awfully 
young  to  be  fallen  in  love  with — Bob  Alden,  for 
instance — why,  he  is  a  perfect  infant!" 

Surely  enough,  they  had  a  long  wait  under  the 
maples  just  outside  of  town,  and  MacCammon 
persisted  in  pointing  out  the  different  grains  com- 
ing up  in  the  fields  around  them,  and  the  different 
birds  flitting  in  the  branches,  and  the  different 
flowers  nodding  by  the  roadside — to  the  intense 
annoyance  of  the  doctor,  who  said  openly  he  did 
not  care  two  cents  about  grains  and  birds  and 
flowers,  and  very  much  preferred  to  concentrate 
on  other  things  that  interested  him  more. 

Then  came  the  last  flying  rush  to  the  station, 
where  father  was  met  and  welcomed  as  though 
he  had  not  been  seen  only  a  few  hours  before, 
and  they  sped  quickly  to  the  manse. 

"Do  hurry,"  Doris  begged.  "I  know  they  have 
a  surprise  for  us,  and  I  can't  wait." 

The  surprise  was  evident  as  soon  as  they  en- 
tered the  door.  For  all  the  manse  was  softly, 
279 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

sweetly  shaded,  with  silky  green  and  rose-colored 
curtains  before  every  window.  Every  light  was 
covered  with  dainty  shades  of  the  same  soft 
colors.  There  was  no  glare,  no  bright  splashes 
of  light,  no  gleam,  from  any  corner. 

The  doctor  himself  removed  the  heavy  goggle 
glasses  from  their  father's  eyes. 

"This  can't  hurt  anybody,"  he  declared.  "It  is 
charming.  Look  around,  man." 

"Why,  you  dear  little  girls,"  said  Mr.  Artman. 
"Did  you  do  this  for  me  ?" 

"For  all  of  us,"  said  Treasure.  "We  knew  it 
would  make  us  all  happy  if  you  could  be  right  in 
the  home  with  us,  and  comfortable,  not  shut  up 
by  yourself  in  a  dark  room  alone  up-stairs,  and 
so  we  did  it  for  the  whole  family." 

"Where  is  Miss  Carlton?"  asked  Doris. 

"She  left  yesterday,"  said  Zee.  "We  wanted 
to  have  the  house  to  ourselves." 

"But  wherever  did  you  get  the  money?"  wori« 
dered  Doris. 

"Ladies'  Aid,"  they  shouted  triumphantly. 
"We  were  going  to  do  it  with  cheaper  stuff  oui 
280 


RISING  TO  THE  MANSE 

of  our  allowance — but  when  they  heard  about  it 
they  chipped  in — and,  oh,  how  we  have  worked." 
Zee  danced  about  on  joyous  toes.  "And  the  house 
cleaning  is  all  done — and  come  up-stairs  and  see 
father's  room." 

There  was  not  even  a  white  coverlet  on  the 
bed  in  his  room,  only  the  very  palest  and  softest 
of  colors — and  upholstering  on  the  chairs  in 
deep  green  tones — even  the  paper  on  the  wall  was 
changed. 

"Whoever  in  the  world — "  gasped  Doris. 

"Bangs  and  the  Corduroy  Crab,"  exulted  Zee. 
"They  worked  and  worked,  and  made  the  whole 
room  over.  Isn't  the  Curious  Cat  a  darling  not 
to  tell  you  ?  He  knew  it  all  the  time." 

Doris  held  out  her  hand  to  him  impulsively, 
and  he  took  it,  and  kept  it  in  his. 

"And  that  isn't  all — sit  down,  everybody," 
cried  Zee  nervously.  "We  haven't  half  shown 
you  everything.  Sit  down,  and— »  Qfou  tell  if, 
Treasure,  your  part  comes  next." 

"You  tell  it,  Zee,  you  talk  more — I  mean  bet- 
ter, than  I  do." 

281 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Well,"  began  Zee,  nothing  loath,  perching 
herself  on  her  father's  knee  and  beaming  around 
on  them  like  a  fairy  godmother,  "you  see  when 
we  first  knew  about  father's  eyes,  and  Doris  and 
Rosalie  were  doing  everything  for  father,  we  felt 
just  terribly  badly,  because  we  couldn't  do  any- 
thing, and  we  felt  so  useless,  we  just  hated  to  be 
alive.  And  so  we  talked  to  our  nice  old  Cat — " 

"Zee!" 

"It  is  a  compliment,  Mr.  MacCammon,"  she 
said,  smiling  on  him  warmly.  "And  between  the 
three  of  us  we  figured  and  schemed — for  we  were 
determined  to  do  our  share,  and — and — come  up 
to  the  manse,  you  know.  We  wanted  to  rise  to  the 
— the  occasion  with  the  rest  of  you,  even  if  we 
are  young  and  usually  in  trouble.  And  so  guess 
what  Treasure  did." 

"Tell  us,"  begged  Doris. 

"Nobody  can  ever  tell  what  either  of  you  ever 
did,"  said  Rosalie. 

"Well,  she  began  going  to  domestic  science 
classes,  hours  and  hours  and  hours.  And  when 
Miss  Carlton  was  here,  they  worked  every  mhi- 
282 


RISING  TO  THE  MANSE 

ute,  both  of  them,  like — like  dogs — cooking  and 
baking,  and  learning  stuff,  and  Treasure  is  a  per- 
fectly wonderful  cook — better  than  Doris  herself. 
She  can  cook  anything  in  the  world,  and  bake 
bread,  and — she  can  cook  the  whole  meal,  all  by 
herself,  and  she  loves  it,  and  she  is  going  to  do  if 
all  the  time  after  this,  so  Doris  will  have  more 
time  for  father,  and  to  help  with  the  church,  and 
to — entertain  Mr.  MacCammon,  and  so  forth." 

"Honestly?" 

"Wait  till  dinner,  and  you  shall  see." 

"And,  father,"  began  Treasure  gently,  "you 
know  I  do  not  care  for  school  much,  and  now 
I  have  finished  high  school,  I  thought  maybe  you 
would  not  make  me  go  to  college.  I  can't  teach 
or  anything.  I  am  too  afraid  to  get  up  before 
folks,  and — won't  you  please  let  me  stay  at  home 
and  be  your  cook,  and  just  study  music,  and  a 
few  little  things  like  that?" 

"Why,  Treasure!" 

"Well,  think  it  over,"  said  Zee.  "It  is  open  for 
consideration  anyhow." 

"Tell  about  your  part,  Zee." 
283 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Oh,  mine  is  not  important,"  said  Zee,  "the 
cooking  is  the  big  job." 

"It  is,  too,  important,"  cried  Treasure  indig- 
nantly. "Poor  little  Zee  has  been  darning  and 
mending  every  minute  for  the  last  month — and 
her  fingers  are  all  pricked  up,  and  she  got  so  tired 
of  it — but  she  can  do  it  just  fine,  and  she  is  go- 
ing to  all  the  rest  of  the  time — and  she  and  I 
have  been  making  beds  and  sweeping,  and  we  are 
awfully  smart  at  it — if  we  do  say  so  ourselves — * 
and  so,  Miss  General,  you  are  out  of  a  job.  Zee 
and  I  take  the  whole  house." 

"But  what  am  I  to  do?"  asked  Doris  dazedly. 

MacCammon  squeezed  her  fingers  suggestively, 
but  Doris  could  not  or  would  not  get  the  message. 

"You  are  to  play  with  father,  and  call  on  the 
sick,"  said  Zee  glibly.  "We've  got  it  all  figured 
out.  You  and  father  and  Rosalie  are  to  play  all 
summer,  go  camping,  and  fishing  and  hunting — • 
and  go  driving  around  the  country  to  conventions 
and  chautauquas,  and — and — everything." 

"Oh,  that  blessed  car,"  said  Doris.    "Oh,  dear 
Mr.  Davison,  how  good  and  kind  he  was." 
284 


RISING  TO  THE  MANSE 

"Doris  will  have  Mr.  Davison  haloed  before 
long.  He  has  grown  constantly  better  since  the. 
day  of  his  death." 

"It  taught  me  a  lesson,  Rosalie.  I  never  be* 
lieved  there  was  any  good  in  that  man  at  all — • 
but  now  I  know  there  must  have  been  a  divine 
spark  in  him  all  the  time,  and  maybe  if  we  had 
not  been  so  sure  he  was  no  good,  we  might  have 
fanned  the  spark  a  little  before  he  died.  I  feel 
guilty  about  Mr.  Davison — my  conscience  hurts." 

"But,  girls,  you  are  so  young — "  protested  Mr. 
Artman. 

"Just  try  us,  father,  that  is  all.  We've  got  the 
goods — you  watch  us  deliver,"  cried  Zee,  and  for. 
once  Doris  did  not  reprove  her  for  the  slang. 

"There  does  not  seem  much  need  for  a  min- 
ister here,  then,"  he  said,  laughing.  "With  Rosa- 
lie taking  my  Sunday-school  class,  and  Doris  se- 
lecting my  sermons,  and  both  of  them  looking 
up  references — what  is  the  use  of  having  a 
preacher?" 

*'You  must  still  listen  to  the  troubles,  and  weep 
5?ith  the  sad,  and  rejoice  with  the  gay — and  you 
285 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

must  still  do  the  marrying  and  the  burying  and 
the  baptizing,"  said  Rosalie  quickly. 

Treasure  and  Zee  nudged  each  other,  and  gig- 
gled ecstatically.  For  they  knew  what  the  others 
'did  not — that  in  all  the  loyal  little  church  there 
was  a  covenant  of  joy  passing  around  from  one 
to  another.  "Let's  go  to  him  in  gladness,  rather 
than  in  complaint,"  was  the  new  byword.  And 
the  people  were  storing  up  bits  of  happiness  to 
take  to  him  from  day  to  day,  little  triumphs  of 
business,  spicy  portions  of  humor  and  fun — and 
the  daily  annoyances  and  the  petty  grievances 
were  being  pushed  aside  and  forgotten.  For  in 
time  of  stress  and  calamity,  the  heart  of  the 
church  beats  true.  Of  course,  when  sorrow 
comes,  it  is  the  minister's  portion  to  enter  into 
the  innermost  recesses  of  the  soul,  for  that  is 
his  inalienable  right,  as  pastor  of  human  hearts, 
and  no  physical  weakness  of  his  own  can  weaken 
his  fount  of  sympathy  and  tenderness. 

But  because  they  loved  him,  all  the  church  was 
learning  to  look  up,  and  laugh.  And  somehow  it 
made  worship  sweeter  when  there  was  jojr  anci 
286 


RISING  TO  THE  MANSE 

gratitude  and  faith  among  them  and  they  were 
lifted  out  of  the  narrow  circle  of  self. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  Mr.  Artman,  in  the  soft 
light  of  the  room  that  had  been  his  sanctuary  for 
years,  with  his  baby  girls  in  his  arms,  and  witH 
the  two  strong  radiant  daughters  standing  near 
him,  felt  that  the  manse  was  a  place  of  benedic-* 
tion  and  of  peace. 

"I  used  to  wonder — if  I  could  rear  my  girls 
alone,"  he  said,  smiling,  though  his  voice  was 
tremulous.  "There  were  so  many  problems — 
and  it  was  hard  to  see  if  we  were  coming  out  just 
right — I  used  to  wonder  if  I  knew  enough  to 
handle  it." 

Zee  patted  his  shoulder  reassuringly.  "We 
never  doubted  it,  father,"  she  said,  in  a  most  ma- 
ternal voice. 

"Of  course,  we  had  lots  of  trouble,  father,  get- 
ting grown  up,"  said  Treasure.  "But  you  might 
know  that  when  the  time  came — we  would  be — " 

"There  with  the  goods,"  put  in  Zee  impishly. 

"We  just  naturally  rose  to  the  standard  of  the 
manse,"  said  the  General  grandly. 
287 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

MacCammon  had  not  released  his  hold  of 
Doris'  hand,  and  now  he  drew  her  outside  the 
room  and  closed  the  door. 

"Doris,"  he  said,  "I  can't  wait  any  longer.  I 
am  afraid  the  bishop  might  send  a  telegram,  or 
come  flying  in  by  aeroplane.  And  I  want  to 
make  sure  of  belonging  to  this  family  right  away. 
You  are  wonderful — all  of  you — the  whole  fam- 

W 

"It  is  the  manse,"  said  Doris,  smiling.  "It 
keeps  us  up,  and  coming.  We  have  to  live  up 
to  it." 

"It  is  the  manse,  partly,  perhaps,"  he  said, 
"but  it  is  mostly—" 

"I  know — it  is  mostly  father.  Nobody  could 
doubt  that.  Did  you  ever  see  a  father  like  him?" 

"I  never  did,  and  I  never  saw  a  Doris  like  you. 
Please  excuse  me,  dearest,  for  making  you  think 
of  me,  when  your  heart  is  full  of  your  father, 
and  your  sisters,  and  your  manse — but  I  love  you 
very  much.  When  your  father's  eyes  are  strong 
and  well,  and  when  Rosalie  has  finished  college, 
and  when  Treasure  is  really  ready  for  promotion 
288 


RISING  TO  THE  MANSE 

to  a  captaincy — then  will  you  come  and  make  me 

happy  ?" 

Doris  flushed  warmly,  and  lifted  her  eyes  to  his 
face,  looking  steadily  at  him. 

"Do  not  think  it  is  just  selfishness,  dearest,  my 
trying  to  intrude  on  your  sacred  hour  of  coming 
home,  but — " 

"You  could  not  intrude,"  she  said  softly.  "For 
you  belong  in  the  home-coming.  It  would  not  be 
coming  home  at  all  if  you  were  not  here." 

Her  lips  were  quivering,  and  the  tears  rushed 
to  her  eyes  as  he  put  his  arms  around  her. 

After  a  time,  Zee  opened  the  door  and  whirled 
out  upon  them. 

"Mercy!"  she  said.  "I  was  coming  after  you. 
Father  wants  everybody  to  be  right  there  every 
minute." 

"I  know  now  there  never  was  any  chance  for 
the  bishop,"  said  MacCammon,  smiling.  "Oh,  the 
poor  bishop!  That  bad  little  Rosalie  was  just 
scaring  me." 

"That  bad  little  Rosalie  is  turning  out  to  be  a 
great  and  glorious  girl,"  said  Doris  proudly. 
289 


LEAVE  IT  TO  DORIS 

"Isn't  she?  And  to  think  we  used  to  call  her  the 
awful  Problem  of  the  manse." 

"That  bad  little  Rosalie  is  turning  out  a  per- 
fectly grand  and  glorious  girl  because  she  had  a 
sweet  wise  sister  to  solve  the  awful  problems  for 
her.  I  know,  for  she  told  me  herself." 

Zee,  leaning  patiently  against  the  wall,  held  up 
a  respectful  hand  as  though  to  a  teacher  in  school. 

"May  I  speak  now,  please?  Father  wants  his 
General  to  take  charge." 

"Zee,  I  hope  you  approve  of  me  for  a  brother- 
in-law,  for  it  won't  do  any  good  if  you  do  not. 
It  is  all  settled,  and  you  may  as  well  be  pleased." 

"Oh,  Doris,"  wailed  Zee,  suddenly  tearful. 
"Not  really." 

"Why,  Zee,"  cried  Doris,  shocked  at  her  in- 
tensity of  grief.  "Why,  Baby!  I  will  be  here  a 
long,  long  time  yet — and  never  far  away." 

"Oh,  and  I  haven't  a  cent  to  my  name.  I  spent 
all  I  had,  and  all  I  could  borrow,  on  those  cur- 
tains in  father's  room." 

"Oh,  cheer  up — you  won't  need  to  buy  a  wed- 
290 


RISING  TO  THE  MANSE 

ding  present  yet  a  while.  We  won't  hurry  you. 
Your  I.  O.  U.  is  good  with  us." 

"It  is  not  that,  goosie,"  said  Zee  with  lofty 
scorn.  "But  Treasure  and  I  bet  a  dollar  on  it — 
and  I  picked  the  bishop — I  never  dreamed  that 
Doris  would  go  back  on  us  preachers — and  now  I 
haven't  got  the  dollar." 

"Serves  you  right,"  said  MacCammon  grimly. 
"I  am  glad  you  lost.  And  you  can't  get  a  loan 
out  of  me.  If  you  had  bet  on  me,  I'd  give  you  the 
dollar  and  tickled  to  death." 

"Come  on  back  to  father,"  said  Zee,  struggling 
heroically  to  rise  to  the  heights  required.  "This 
is  father's  day.  I  may  be  bankrupt,  and  ruined, 
and  facing  degradation,  and  all  that — but  I  can 
still  scare  up  a  smile  for  him." 


THE   END 


4 'The  Books  You  Like  to  Read 
at  the  Price  You  Like  to  Pay" 


There  Are  Two  Sides 
to  Everything — 

— including  the  wrapper  which  covers 
every  Grosset  &  Dunlap  book.  When 
you  feel  in  the  mood  for  a  good  ro- 
mance, refer  to  the  carefully  selected  list 
of  modern  fiction  comprising  most  of 
the  successes  by  prominent  writers  of 
the  day  which  is  printed  on  the  back  of 
every  Grosset  &  Dunlap  book  wrapper. 

You  will  find  more  than  five  hundred 
titles  to  choose  from — books  for  every 
mood  and  every  taste  and  every  pocket- 
book. 

Don't  forget  the  other  side,  but  in  case 
the  wrapper  is  lost,  write  to  the  publishers 
for  a  complete  catalog. 


There  is  a  Grosset  &•  Dunlap  Book 
for  every  mood  and  for  every  taste 


RUBY  M.   AYRE'S    NOVELS 

May  ba  had  wherever  books  are  sold.      Art  for  Grotset  A  Dunlap't  llrt. 

RICHARD  CHATTERTON 

A  fascinating  story  in  which  love  and  jealousy  play 
strange  tricks  with  women's  souls. 

A  BACHELOR  HUSBAND 

Can  a  woman  love  two  men  at  the  same  time  ? 

In  its  solving  of  this  particular  variety  of  triangle  "  A 
Bachelor  Husband  "  will  particularly  interest,  and  strangely 
enough,  without  one  shock  to  the  most  conventional  minded. 

THE  SCAR 

With  tine  comprehension  and  insight  the  author  shows  a 
terrific  contrast  between  the  woman  whose  love  was  of  the 
flesh  and  one  whose  love  was  of  the  spirit. 

THE  MARRIAGE  OF  BARRY  WICKLOW 

Here  is  a  man  and  woman  who,  marrying  for  love,  yet  try 
to  build  their  wedded  life  upon  a  gospel  of  hate  for  each 
other  and  yet  win  back  to  a  greater  love  for  each  other  in 
the  end. 

THE  UPHILL  ROAD 

The  heroine  of  this  story  was  a  consort  of  thieves.  The 
man  was  fine,  clean,  fresh  from  the  West.  It  is  a  story  of 
strength  and  passion. 

WINDS  OF  THE  WORLD 

Jill,  a  poor  little  typist,  marries  the  great  Henry  Sturgess 
and  inherits  millions,  but  not  happiness.  Then  at  last — but 
we  must  leave  that  to  Ruby  M.  Ay  res  to  tell  you  as  only 
she  can. 

THE  SECOND  HONEYMOON 

In  this  story  the  author  has  produced  a  book  which  no 
one  who  has  loved  or  hopes  to  love  can  afford  to  miss. 
The  story  fairly  leaps  from  climax  to  climax. 

THE  PHANTOM  LOVER 

Have  you  not  often  heard  of  someone  being  in  love  with 
love  rather  than  the  person  they  believed  the  object  of  their 
affections  ?  That  was  Esther !  But  she  passes  through  the 
crisis  into  a  deep  and  profound  love. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,         PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


PETER  B.  KYNE'S  NOVELS 

_  i 

Miy  be  had  whatever  books  are  sold.      Asfc  for  Broeset  A  Dunlap'i  list. 

THE  PRIDE  OF  PALOMAR 

When  two  strong  men  clash  and  the  under-dog  has  Irish 
blood  in  his  veins — there's  a  tale  that  Kyne  can  telll  And 
"  the  girl "  is  also  very  much  in  evidence. 

KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Donald  McKay,  son  of  Hector  McKay,  millionaire  lum- 
ber king,  falls  in  love  with  "  Nan  of  the  Sawdust  Pile,"  a 
charming  girl  who  has  been  ostracized  by  her  townsfolk. 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  GIANTS 

The  fight  of  the  Cardigans,  father  and  son,  to  hold  the 
Valley  of  the  Giants  against  treachery.  The  reader  finishes 
with  a  sense  of  having  lived  with  big  men  and  women  in  a 
big  country. 

GAPPY  RICKS 

The  story  of  old  Gappy  Ricks  and  of  Matt  Peasley,  the 
boy  he  tried  to  break  because  he  knew  the  acid  test  was 
good  for  his  soul. 

WEBSTER;  MAN'S  MAN 

In  a  little  Jim  Crow  Republic  in  Central  America,  a  man 
and  a  woman,  hailing  from  the  "  States,"  met  up  with  a 
revolution  and  for  a  while  adventures  and  excitement  came 
so  thick  and  fast  that  their  love  affair  had  to  wait  for  a  lull 
in  the  game. 

CAPTAIN  SCRAGGS 

This  sea  yarn  recounts  the  adventures  of  three  rapscal- 
lion sea-faring  men — a  Captain  Scraggs,  owner  of  the  green 
vegetable  freighter  Maggie,  Gibney  the  mate  and  McGuff- 
ney  the  engineer. 

THE  LONG  CHANCE 

A  story  fresh  from  the  heart  of  the  West,  of  San  Pasqual, 
a  sun-baked  desert  town,  of  Harley  P.  Hennage,  the  best 
gambler,  the  best  and  worst  man  of  San  Pasqual  and  of 
lovely  Donna. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FAC  LITY 


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